Pineapple Chunks: A Collection of Oneshots
by Pazz.and.Jop
Summary: A collection of Shawn/Lassie stories. Rated T for slash and slight language.*** SHOT XVIII: Things don't end well. WARNING: Character death.
1. I: Tics

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

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**Shot I: Tics**

Carlton Lassiter had a habit of silently talking to himself when he was deep in thought.

He licked his lips every three minutes and 45 seconds. The licks increased when he was bored.

He twisted at his empty left ring finger whenever he felt nervous or self-conscious.

He fingered his gun or hooked his hands on his holster when he was content.

He never cursed when he was angry or when interrogating uncooperative suspects. He didn't need to.

Shawn knew all of the Head Detective's tics. No matter how stoic Lassiter tried to appear to the rest of the world, Shawn could pinpoint his true mood in an instant.

Today, Lassiter was definitely in a funk. He was snapping at underlings more than he usually did. He'd flustered McNab so badly, the man had accidently spilt an entire pot of lukewarm coffee on himself. He was sharp with O'Hara. Even now, as the Chief was briefing them on a kidnapping case, the detective seemed annoyed and disinterested. He was standing in the back of the Chief's office, near the door, arms crossed and face blank.

This was new. No matter Lassiter's mood, he always kept his focus when it came to work.

Truth be told, Shawn was stumped. Clues were scarce. Lassiter's hands were still and empty. His lips were still, but relaxed.

But his eyes...if it were anyone else, Shawn would say they looked sad. The detective wasn't looking at the Chief. His eyes were much too unfocused to be paying attention to what was going on in the room. His lids were lowered with only—

"Spencer! What the hell are you staring at?"

Shawn jumped slightly at the sound of Lassiter's angry tone. It was rare that faux-psychic was caught off-guard, and he felt the heat of embarrassment as Gus, Juliet and Chief Vick looked at him with confusion. He _had_ been staring and it was quite obvious. His whole body was shifted in his seat, turned away from the Chief's desk so that he could get a better few of the lanky detective.

He cleared his throat and Lassiter's now-angry blue eyes. He stared at them for a few more seconds. "Sorry 'bout that, Lassie. I simply got lost in your eyes," Shawn replied without a trace of sarcasm.

The frustrated flush that spread across Lassiter's face was a welcome sight. It was familiar and chased that sad glaze out of his eyes. The Chief cleared her throat.

"If you two don't mind, we have a kidnapping case to get moving on."

"Yes, ma'am," Lassiter mumbled. Shawn nodded in agreement.

The authoritative voice of the Chief resumed and slowly recaptured Gus' and Juliet's attention. Shawn leaned back in his seat as Lassiter resumed his glowering.

Angry Lassiter excited Shawn. Happy Lassiter made him laugh. But Sad Lassiter was an unknown. Shawn decided he'd rather keep it that way.

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Author note: Sappy than I intended, but alas. Sad Lassiter equals Sad Shawn. Awww. Please let me know what you think. Reviews make for a better writer.


	2. II: Annoyance

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

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**Shot II: Annoyance**

Carlton Lassiter doesn't know when Shawn Spencer made the transition from unexpected annoyance to expected annoyance to tolerated annoyance to member of the team (but still fucking annoying).

But he does know that when he's working a crime scene and a certain snarky psychic _doesn't _crash it, he's more disappointed than relieved.

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Author's note: Short and sweet. I like it like that. Review please? They can be short and sweet, too.


	3. III: Orchestra

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

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**Shot III: Orchestra**

"The Santa Barbara Orchestra?" Shawn studied the two tickets Lassiter had given him and then quickly up at the dark-haired detective. He was standing in the entryway of Shawn's apartment, re-knotting with his tie, still dressed in his work suit. They'd taken three drug dealers off the streets today, which meant Lassiter was in a better mood than usual. Good enough to offer to take Shawn out for the evening. "'Haydn's London Symphonies?' This is what you're so excited to go to?"

"Yes. He's one of my favorite composers," Lassiter replied. "You like music. I like music. It'll be nice."

"Dude, I like twenty-year old pop music and television jingles." Shawn leaned back in his seat on the couch and crossed his arms. "I'm thinking your man Haydn here did none of those."

"No, he didn't. But, he's considered the father of the symphony. It'll be a great." Lassiter, apparently satisfied with his tie, began to fix his already perfect hair.

"Well, with credentials like that…" Shawn stared up at the ceiling, his arms folded underneath his head. "How long will this thing last?"

Lassiter's face fell slightly. "Only a few hours." He dropped his hands to his side. "You don't want to go, do you?" Shawn didn't answer him, instead feigning interest in a loose thread on the cushion. Lassiter sighed heavily and flopped down on the couch. "That's okay. I guess we could stay in tonight."

Shawn felt like an ass. They stayed in last night. And the night before that. Hell, they _always_ stayed in. For the first two months they were together, Lassiter had been too nervous to be with Shawn in public. That limited them to dinner and movie nights at each other's apartment. Now that Lassiter was more settled with the idea of them as a couple, they still spent most of their nights together eating take-out and watching TV.

"No, it's not that. I just…you didn't have to go to all this trouble." Shawn shifted on the couch. "If you wanted to go out and hear music, we could just go have sex in the Shenanigans' parking lot with the radio on."

Lassiter grimaced slightly. He'd never been comfortable with Shawn's blatant sexuality. "I got the tickets for free and wanted to take you. I know it's last minute, but you didn't plan anything else for us tonight, did you?"

Shawn hesitated. Pizza Hut and HBO weren't plans. "No."

"Then you'll go?"

One look at the detective's face and Shawn knew that he'd lost. Lassiter rarely got excited about things that didn't involve police work. Shawn could put up with Mr. Haydn if it would keep Lassiter smiling like that.

"Yeah, I'll go."

Lassiter stood up and pulled Shawn up with him. He was grinning. _Definitely worth it,_ Shawn thought.

Lassiter gave him a quick kiss. "Trust me, you'll love it."

* * *

Shawn did not understand why listening to a bunch of middle-aged nerds play 300-year-old music required him to leave the comfort of his Levi's, but Lassiter had insisted that since they were finally going to go out, they might as well dress for the occasion. And as much as it shamed him to admit it, Shawn was defenseless against Lassiter's intimidation-seduction techniques (or "intimiduction," as Shawn called it).

So, five idle threats, 40 or so rushed kisses and one disturbingly arousing full-body pin later, Shawn found himself shoved into the too-small suit that Lassiter had found in his closet. The fabric pulled tightly across his back and his arms felt strangled by his narrow cuffs.

It didn't help that the symphony hall they were now seated in didn't feel the need to turn on the air conditioning. Shawn twisted in his seat, in a futile effort to get comfortable. _Pull left sleeve, straighten right leg, loosen waistband, now pull right sleeve—_

"Will you stop fidgeting so much," Lassiter said sharply. He placed his hand on Shawn's right thigh, stilling him instantly. Warmth shot out from the spot he touched and slowly spread throughout Shawn's body. Shawn pressed himself against the armrest that separated them in an attempt to get closer to the lanky detective. He tried not to show his disappointment when Lassiter quickly removed his hand. He decided to make one last ditch effort to convince Lassiter how their time could be better spent.

"You know," Shawn said in a low voice, "you're the first person to ever talk me into a suit and tie in under three minutes." He leaned in, putting his body even more into Lassiter's personal space. "Let's go home and see how quickly you can talk me out of it."

The smirk that flitted across Lassiter's face was so fleeting that Shawn wasn't entirely certain it actually existed.

"Later," the detective whispered, while slowly pushing Shawn back into his seat. "Quiet. They're starting."

The hall's house lights lowered and the buzz of conversation ceased. Lassiter's quickly turned his attention away from the fidgety psychic to the stage.

A short and stocky man dressed in tails walked to the center of the stage and took a quick bow.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he spoke in a deep, rich voice, "the Santa Barbara Orchestra is proud to present a selection of Franz Josef Haydn's London Symphonies. Our first piece is Symphony 101, also known as 'The Clock'. Please enjoy."

The man turned and faced the musicians. He raised his arms and in precise, smooth motions, the musicians raised their instruments and began to play. The slow sound of the violin strings filled the hall.

Two minutes into the piece and Shawn found himself stumped. How could Lassiter enjoy something so…boring? The music was slow and had no lyrics that could later he could later turn into witty banter. The slow rise and fall of the music was slowly lulling him to sleep. The only way that Shawn could stay awake and not have Lassiter be upset with him for not paying attention, was to not pay attention.

Shawn turned and studied the other man. Lassiter seemed to be enjoying himself. His eyes were slightly closed and his head moved in time with the music. Shawn didn't get it.

Actually, there were a lot of things Lassiter enjoyed that Shawn just didn't get: civil war reenactments, fishing, hunting. That, along with his failed marriage, made Lassiter one receding hairline away from being his father.

And therein laid Shawn's true fear: how could two completely different people possibly keep each other interested? Shawn knew that while he found certain aspects of the detective's personality dry, Lassiter thought he was flakey and shortsighted, jumping from thing to another. This week he was into drag racing. The week before that, it was fencing. Shawn hated routine and did all he could to avoid it. How long before Lassiter became another routine to avoid?

That was how most of Shawn's relationships ended. The thrill of sex and flirting would only last so long before Shawn began to grow bored and begin lusting for someone new. Phone calls would begin to be ignored. Conversations would start to become forced and awkward. Even sex became a chore, done out of the guilt he felt for his increasing inattention.

Shawn didn't want this—whatever this relationship between Lassiter and him was—to end up like all those others. He'd spent too much time and effort convincing the relationship-wary man to give him a chance. He wanted to prove that Lassiter hadn't made a mistake in trusting him.

True, his relationship with Lassiter had already out lasted the longest of all his previous relationships. Two weeks, three days and six hours longer, if Shawn's memory was correct (which, of course it was). Yet, he had already felt the familiar spark of lust grow weaker the longer he was with Lassiter.

Shawn's depressingly frantic thoughts had completely distracted him from the concert. So much so, that when the music came to an end, Shawn half-heartedly raised his hands to applaud. A warm, rough hand grabbed them before he could clap.

"Not yet," Lassiter breathed into Shawn's ear, never taking his eyes off the stage. "The piece isn't over." Lassiter lowered their hands. Sure enough, the rest of the audience sat in silence as the musicians began playing again.

Shawn looked down at his hands. Lassiter hadn't released them after preventing him from clapping. His thumb slowly massaged Shawn's knuckles, rubbing small circles along his skin. The detective's attention seemed to be immersed in the musicians as they began to play the second movement of the piece.

There it was again. That warmth. That feeling that grew from wherever Lassiter happened to be touching him to engulf his whole body. That feeling that came whenever Lassiter touched him, kissed him, looked at him, smiled at him, fought with him, laughed at him. That feeling he noticed that was slowly replacing the much hotter and more intense lust, but was still no less pleasant. That feeling that Shawn never recalled having in any of his other relationships. That warmth that was making the droning sound of violins sound somewhat pleasant.

Suddenly, Shawn felt more at ease. He relaxed into his seat and let the music of the second movement of Haydn's 101st symphony wash around him. As he clasped his favorite detective's hand in his, he realized something. It turns out Lassiter was right. Shawn loved the orchestra.

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Author's Note: Mozart was a genius and Liszt pwned the piano, but Haydn will always be my fav.

Also, while there is no evidence that Lassiter does hunt, I haven't found any evidence that he wouldn't. Guns and prey? What's not for him to love?

Hope you enjoyed! I'm thankful for the reviews I've received so far. Reviews motivate me to write. Ya'll are awesome!


	4. IV: Quiet

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

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**Shot IV: Quiet**

There were only three ways to get Shawn Spencer to shut up. One was to get him to go to sleep. Unfortunately for Henry Spencer, Shawn had become far too old to simply send off to bed. Now, whenever Henry tried to tell Shawn to do anything, all he got were snarky accusations of trying to control Shawn and melodramatic tirades of ruined childhoods.

The second was to simply to knock him out. It had worked for Drimmer. Unfortunately for Burton Guster, he was slightly more concerned about giving Shawn mild concussions than Drimmer was. That and, whenever Gus attempted to sneak up on Shawn, the other retaliated with rapid slaps to his head. Gus was very protective of his head.

The last, and arguably the most successful method, was the one Carlton Lassiter had stumbled upon during a rather heated argument he had been having with the psychic. Lassiter can't remember what it was they were arguing about. All he can remember is a determined, green-eyed stare, his own valiant attempts to control his rapid breathing and the lure of a warm body as he pushed Shawn against the wall. It turns out that the best way to get Shawn to stop running off at the mouth was to give him something else to do with it.

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Author's Note: Too subtle? I know what Lassie does to shut him up, I just hope you all got it without me hitting you over the head with it. As always, h and k's for everyone who has reviewed so far. You've made me smile. =)


	5. V: Games

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

AN: For the sake of continuity, this shot takes place before season 3's "Tuesday the 17th."

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**Shot V: Games**

Shawn Spencer was not a happy man. For the last six months, he had been locked in an intense, head-to-head competition with Carlton Lassiter. And, damn it all, the detective was winning. The only thing that helped soothe Shawn's pride was that Lassiter didn't even know it.

The detective's success wasn't unexpected. He had a natural advantage in the Make-Lassie-Smile game. A game that, while not as challenging as the Make-Gus-Visibly-Blush game, was far more rewarding.

The rules were simple: Shawn had to get Lassiter to smile a genuine, non-sarcastic, non-predatory smile without the use of props, visual aids, physical stimulation (i.e. no tickling) or mood-altering drugs. If Lassiter smiled, Shawn's point. If Shawn's efforts were somehow resisted, Lassiter's point.

The score was currently Lassiter: 37, Shawn: 2. It was embarrassing, really. He was Shawn Spencer. He was quirky, adorable and charming. He was, for lack of a better phrase, _fucking irresistible_. Whatever immunity Lassiter had built up, Shawn was determined to beat it down.

Shawn scanned the bullpen of the police department, looking for the dark-haired detective. He found the man sitting at his desk, speaking animatedly into the phone.

Shawn studied him. His hunched shoulders and hushed voice meant that it was his ex-wife on the other end. That woman had the power to influence Lassiter's emotions in ways Shawn couldn't help but envy. A phone call from her could result in Lassiter smirking, fuming or pouting. (Interestingly enough, pouting Lassiter looked just like fuming Lassiter.) Lassiter's anxious voice carried across the bullpen. The conversation wasn't going well for him. Victoria was shutting him down mid-sentence.

"How was I supposed to know—"

"Well, if you would answer—"

"I already told you that—"

"If that's how you feel about then why—hello?," Lassiter pushed the buttons on his phone frantically. "Hello?" He stared at the phone in anger before slamming it on the cradle.

A few startled officers looked over at his desk, only to quickly turn away when they met sharp, blue eyes. Realizing how big of a scene he was causing, the dark-haired man began shuffling through the files on his desk in an attempt to look busy.

A sane person would have realized that now was not a good to approach the detective, but Shawn was never one to turn down a challenge

_Pouty Lassiter. Perfect, _Shawn thought. _My prey is vulnerable. Now's the time to attack._

Shawn pressed himself against the wall and began slowly creeping up on the agitated man.

_When stalking the temperamental Lassidon, it's best not to make any sudden moves._

Shawn dropped to all fours and began crawling between the maze of desks that stood between him and his goal. Officers stepped over him as he made his way across the room. A few were surprised. Shawn didn't usually crawl around _this_ early in the morning.

_The Lassidon has an advanced sense of sight and sound, so always be aware of your surroundings._

Shawn crouched behind the desk across from Lassiter's. The detective was now facing his computer, seemingly engrossed in his work. He wasn't fooling Shawn, however. He was typing much more aggressively than normal. An angry email to his ex, most likely. Typing out what he didn't get the chance to say.

_The Lassidon is nothing if not predictable._

Lassiter looked over and spotted Shawn.

Shawn ducked.

"Spencer, I see you behind that desk," a tired voice called out.

_So much for the hunt._

Shawn sprung up and skipped the short distance to Lassiter's desk. He jumped onto the worn wood, settling himself in the middle of the detective's workspace. He decided to ignore it when Lassiter quickly minimized his email window.

He smiled at the glowering face in front of him. "Hey, Lassie. How's it hangin'?"

"What do you want, Spencer?" Lassiter's voice lacked its usual bite. The detective wasn't even looking at him; instead he began to make a show of looking for something in his desk drawers.

Shawn grabbed one of the files he was sitting on and began flipping through it. "Why, Lassie I just wanted to check in on a fellow co-worker. You seem so stressed."

Lassiter snatched the file out of Shawn's hands. "I'm a cop. It comes with the job."

"Yes, but the salt and pepper in your hair has been getting saltier. Too much sodium isn't good for your heart." Shawn pulled at the hair at Lassiter's temples for proof.

"Like you care," Lassiter growled, swatting Shawn's hands away. Then his face fell. "Like anyone cares," he said quietly.

_That was interesting._

Shawn cocked his head. "I'm surprised, Lassie. Self-pity isn't your thing."

Blue eyes met green. "It's not pity, Spencer. It's just a difficult truth."

_Very interesting._

It wasn't a great leap of logic for Shawn to figure out what had gotten Lassiter's goat. If Lassiter and Victoria were anything like Shawn's parents, their arguments centered on the following accusations: Lassiter worked too hard, Lassiter was a cold, insensitive bastard and Lassiter hadn't tried hard enough to save their marriage.

_Great work, Vicki, _Shawn thought sarcastically._ He's starting to believe all the crap you tell him._

"Truth?" Shawn raised his hands to his head and closed his eyes. "No, I'm sorry," Shawn said, shaking his head. "The spirits disagree, Lassie."

Lassiter scoffed. "What the hell do the _spirits _know?" he asked quietly.

Shawn put his hands on Lassiter's head. The detective froze in rage and confusion.

"The spirits know that you're not completely unfeeling, Lassie. You still care about your ex-wife. You've always cared about her, but you also care about the people of Santa Barbara. And even if she doesn't appreciate that, there are hundreds of thousands people in this city who do."

Shawn lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Lassiter was still staring at him. "One of them is looking at you." Shawn hoped that Lassiter could hear the sincerity in his voice.

The detective stared a few seconds longer, before ducking his head. Lassiter shooed Shawn away, half-heartedly trying to push the psychic off his desk. He turned back to his computer, but not before Shawn caught sight of something. A smile was slowly spreading across the detective's face. It was a tad bittersweet and a bit wobblier than Shawn would have liked, but it was a smile nonetheless. Shawn felt his own smile grow as he hopped off the desk.

_Lassiter: 37. Me: 3._

"The spirits accept your apology for doubting their never-ending knowledge," Shawn said as he slowly backed away from Lassiter's desk.

That did it. The smile grew just a bit sturdier. Dammit, Shawn loved that smile. It was why he played the game. And, despite his horrible showing so far, Shawn would keep playing. The prize was simply too irresistible.

Shawn turned and ambled out of the bullpen. "See ya later, Lassie."

He wasn't expecting a response, so he was surprised when a calm voice replied.

"Later, Spencer."

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AN: This didn't turn out exactly how I planned, but that happens. I hope there wasn't too much going on (the hunt, the game, Shawn's inner dialogue). There was a whole subplot with Gus distracting the Chief, but it didn't add to the story so it go dropped.

I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed so far. You know I think you're awesome. =)

As always, reviews are appreciated!


	6. VI: Jealous

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot VI: Jealous**

"I still don't get why you're so pissed."

Burton Guster slowed his angry stride into the officer's bullpen and turned to face his partner Shawn Spencer.

"Try and guess, Shawn. Why would I possibly be upset about you feeding me poison?" Gus turned and resumed walking away before Shawn could answer.

"Dude, it wasn't poison," Shawn replied, following his flustered friend. "Besides, anyone else could have made the same mistake."

Gus whipped around to face Shawn. His anger was making his face an interesting shade of purple. "No, Shawn. No one else would have thought to try and bake with cocoa butter. And if they did, they wouldn't have tried to hoist the disgusting result on their best friend."

Shawn chuckled to himself. For someone who worked in medicine (or rather worked _with_ medicine), Gus was surprisingly negligent of his blood pressure. Shawn was preparing to offer the appropriate, light-hearted response when something caught his eye: Head Detective Carlton Lassiter having a conversation.

With a woman.

With a gorgeous woman.

With a gorgeous woman who seemed to be enjoying his company.

Shawn stopped and stared at the pair. The woman was petite and slim with a thick mane of black curls. She was fashionably dressed and seemed to hold herself with an air of natural confidence. It did not escape Shawn's notice that there was no ring on her perfectly manicured left hand. Shawn had never seen Lassiter so at ease with a woman. He was smiling down at her and laughing at something she said. It was sickening.

Gus came up behind Shawn suddenly. "Dude, do you realize I just spent the last five minutes yelling at myself?" he asked still irritated.

Shawn ignored the question. "Check that out, Gus. Lassie's made a friend."

"You stopped to ogle Lassiter just because he's talking to some lady?"

Shawn stiffened and ripped his eyes of the woman. "I'm not ogling. I don't ogle. I observe." Shawn shuffled his feet. "It's weird. He looks like he's enjoying himself."

Gus studied the pair. "Maybe she's a suspect. He always gets a kick out of arresting people."

Shawn groaned and made a face. "Really, dude? A suspect? Is she acting like a suspect? Is she cuffed?" Shawn shook his had in a show of disappointment. "We've been friends for almost twenty years and you still haven't picked up any of my skills."

"A victim then."

"Again, haven't you learned anything?"

"Fine, who do you think she is?"

Shawn looked at the woman. She was definitely flirting with the dark-haired man. The realization made Shawn's stomach hurt. He didn't want to know _why_ he felt that.

"Look at how the two of them are interacting. They're joking with each other. She keeps touching him. She must be a girlfriend or something."

"Wow," Gus said in awe. "I didn't think Lassiter had it in him."

Shawn snorted in disgust. "Dude, c'mon. She's totally not his type."

"She's a woman. That's Lassiter's type."

The uncomfortable knot in Shawn's stomach grew.

"Please. First off, she's way too short and Lassie's way too lanky. They look like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito from _Twins_. The perfect height for Lassie is about here," Shawn held his hand up to his hairline.

"Second, what could they possibly have in common? Look at her clothes and shoes; she's clearly into fashion and style. Lassie wears the same suits every week. He needs someone he can talk about stabbings and dangerous criminals with."

Gus watched Shawn's tirade in silence.

"Third, I know for a fact that Lassie loves brunettes."

"Really?" Gus asked.

"Yes, really. Just look at his ex-wife." Shawn turned to look at his friend only to see Gus wearing _that_ face. The face he always wore when Shawn said more than he should have.

"Why do you know so much about Lassiter's taste in girlfriends?" Gus asked, his face suspicious.

"Why do you know so much about body hair removal?"

The purple returned to Gus' face. "Whatever, Shawn. I have better things to do than to stand around staring at Lassiter. I'll see you later."

Shawn watched as his friend stormed out of the station. He was going to have to make it up to him later. This time he'd try a fruit smoothie; apparently, baked goods just pissed Gus off.

Shawn turned back to studying the pair, only to find that Lassiter was gone. The woman was now sitting in a chair in front Lassiter's desk, fixing her make-up. It was time for introductions.

Shawn strolled across the bullpen and settled himself on the edge of Lassiter's desk. The woman looked up from her compact and gave him a questioning look.

"Hello. My name is Shawn Spencer," he held out his hand. "But you may call me Shawn Spencer."

The woman giggled and shook his hand. "I'm Lucille. Nice to meet you."

"I saw you talking to our friend Lassie. Don't tell me a beautiful woman like you is settling for tall, dark and gangly."

Lucille giggled again. "You know Carlton?"

"Know him? We're practically best buds. We know everything about each other."

"Oh, really?"

"Who do you think helped him out after he got abducted and brainwashed by those corporate hippies?"

Lucille giggled again. Shawn began to wonder if she and Lassiter really were flirting or if she just couldn't help but laugh at everything that was said to her.

"He never told me about that."

"Oh, I'm sure there are many things about him you don't know. Intense stuff that would make you think twice about dating him. Want to hear more?"

Lucille looked at Shawn thoughtfully. "You seemed awfully concerned about Carlton and I."

Shawn grabbed her hand chivalrously and looked into her eyes. "I just want to make sure no one makes a mistake that they'll later regret."

Lucille didn't laugh at that; instead, she stared at Shawn thoughtfully. Shawn suddenly felt exposed.

"Spencer!" Lassiter's agitated voice rung out. "What are you doing on my desk?"

"Lassie!" Shawn jumped off the desk and plastered a huge grin on his face. "How've you been, man?"

Lassiter ignored him and went over to help Lucille out of her chair. The knot in Shawn's stomach was getting so large it threatened to choke him.

"Are you alright? He didn't bother you did he?" Lassiter asked Lucille, giving Shawn an angry look.

"No. He was very sweet." Lucille gave Shawn a knowing look followed by a warm smile.

"Spencer, Lucille and I are leaving now. I trust you won't make yourself too big a nuisance while I'm gone." With that, Lassiter lead Lucille away from Shawn and out of the station.

Shawn felt sick. He didn't want to be there when they returned. He didn't want to see Lassiter's happy face as he continued to flirt with someone else. So he went home, ate some cocoa butter cake and tried to figure out why his stomach kept trying to jump out of his throat.

* * *

It had been four days since Shawn had last visited the police station. Turns out, Gus wasn't too far off when he called cocoa butter "poison." He'd spent the last few days bent over the toilet seat. With all that blood rushing to his head, it was a great thinking position. Too bad all he could think of was how great the names Lassiter and Lucille sounded together.

But now he was upright and knew the only cure for a lonely heart was an occupied mind. Hopefully, the Chief wouldn't disappoint.

Shawn had barely made it ten feet into the station, however, before he saw a very agitated Lassiter heading straight for him.

"Spencer! What is the meaning of this? What'd you tell Lucille?" Lassiter stopped in front of him and thrust a pink piece of stationary in his face.

Shawn grabbed the paper and read it. It was a note written to Lassiter.

_Dear Carlton,_

_I just wanted to thank you for showing me such a good time on my first trip to California. You've been such a big help in helping me comfort Mom. She's been worried every since I said I was going to attend UCLA. I told her there was no way Cousin Carlton would let anything happen to me and I was right. I promise to come up and visit for a weekend once I settle in. Thanks again for all your help!_

_Love,_

_Lucille Lassiter_

_P.S. I think your friend Spencer is adorable. Better act fast before he loses interest._

Shawn couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. "Nothing happened, Lassie. You just have a real smart cousin."

Lassiter fumed and snatched the letter out of Shawn's hand before stomping off.

Shawn made his way to the Chief's office. And despite the entire cocoa butter cake he'd ingested, he'd never felt lighter.

* * *

**AN:** Writer's block is a bitch. So is today; I had to get creative in getting this chapter to upload.

As always, thanks for the reviews! The creative juices seem to be flowing again, so hopefully the next post won't take to long. I have a great idea for a Christmas story, but I guess that'll have to wait.

Reviews are appreciated!


	7. VII: Mess

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot VII: Mess**

Carlton Lassiter wished he knew what he had done to piss off Sweet Lady Justice so badly. Whatever it was, it couldn't have warranted this.

A dead body had been found in the sty of a nearby pig farm. The swine had chomped their way through most of the corpse before the farmer discovered it. Lassiter had tolerated a lot in his decade or so of civil service, but wallowing around in a mixture of mud and pig feces overlooking the search for pieces of a partially eaten body had been a new low.

_Head detective, my ass_, Lassiter thought darkly.

He'd been ankle-deep in the mixture, the protective boots the farmer had given him making his legs sweat, when Shawn Spencer had come running up to the crime scene with an exasperated Burton Guster in tow.

"Wilber, Porky, Babe! Gus, they're speaking to me!" The psychic had his hands pressed to his forehead and was doubled over from the apparent mental strain he was enduring. He ran up to the slotted gate of the sty and kneeled down to the pigs' eye level.

"Pigs can't talk, Shawn," Guster replied, his speech muffled as he covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his arm. The pigs' stench had been strong enough to make a few of the assisting officers physically ill. Only two other officers besides Lassiter were still mucking around in the sty.

"Hush, Gus. You know how sensitive Porky is about his stutter."

Hanging out with a bunch of pigs all morning had left Lassiter in a rather cranky mood.

"What in the name of Miranda's rights are you two doing here?" Lassiter shouted from across the sty.

"Lassie!" Shawn stood up quickly. His body appeared stiff and his eyes were squeezed tight. "Something's not right! The pigs they call to me."

Lassiter did not have time for this. "Spencer, I don't have time for this."

"Lassie, the pigs have been framed!" Shawn jumped the gate and splashed into the slop. Mud oozed over his canvas tennis shoes and up his pants leg.

"Spencer, what the hell?" Lassiter stormed over to where Shawn was currently whirling around.

"Their good names, ruined! First the Bay of Pigs and now this!" Shawn threw his hands up in the air in a melodramatic show of anguish. "You think they killed this man," Shawn spun around, kicking up mud, as he pointed to the body.

"Yes," Lassiter replied, surprised at how calm his voice was. He hated to admit it, but Lassiter had come to realize that Shawn wasn't quite as annoying as he used to be. "This man used to work here. According to the farm's owner, he's a drunk who often showed up to work intoxicated. Obviously, he drank too much and passed out while sloping the pigs." Lassiter kicked at a large sow that had come sniffing over. "Pigs will eat anything. He would have had a chance if he passed out anywhere else."

Shawn stopped his spinning long enough to turn and stare at Lassiter. His face was serious and he seemed to be considering what Lassiter had said. Then, he suddenly collapsed into the muck.

"Shawn!" Gus yelled from the gate. He'd climbed the gate, but stopped short of jumping over.

"Spencer!" Lassiter ran over and stood over Shawn. "Are you al—ahhh!" Shawn's muddied hand reached over and pulled at Lassiter's ankle. Lassiter tried desperately to keep his balance, but ended up falling right on top of the psychic.

Shawn pushed Lassiter over and onto his back and put a finger to his mouth, quieting him.

Lassiter was livid. He could feel the disgusting mixture seep through his shirt and hair. Lassiter had never agreed with the idea of "justifiable homicide" before. But, as he felt the mud ooze into his scalp, he gave a considerable amount of thought to the idea.

"Spencer," he whispered dangerously.

Shawn shushed him. "Quiet, Lassie." Shawn grabbed the detective's arm and held him in place. "Things will become clear soon."

Lassiter tried to keep his anger under control. A difficult task considering he was lying in a sea of mud and pig crap, thanks to the man next to him. But, Shawn's antics usually covered up a truly valid point. Lassiter just wished it could have been made without the mess.

"Spencer," he started again.

"Shhhhh!," Shawn squeezed his arm tighter. "They're coming."

Lassiter lifted his head out of the muck. Five large sows were headed over to where the two men lay. A particularly mean looking one began sniffing at the dark-haired detective's feet. He shooed the pig away with a quick kick to the pig's face.

"Lassie!" Shawn exclaimed, "don't be rude. Petunia has something she needs to show you."

The sow returned and resumed rooting at Lassiter's feet. Lassiter lay in the muck and focused on his breathing.

_Inhale. Exhale. _The anger management techniques he'd been forced to learn were finally coming in handy. _I'm giving Spencer to the count of five, then I'm pounding his head so far—_

Lassiter's thoughts stopped dead at the sound of his own panicked scream. The sow had bit his right ankle. Lassiter jumped up out of the muck, cursing and gasping in pain. Shawn got up and followed him.

"Lassie, my god!" Shawn's voice actually sounded worried. "Are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_," Lassiter said between gritted teeth. "In fact, I'm _peachy_, especially since you're leaving." Lassiter limped toward a group of uniforms. "Dobson! Get the two of them out of here!"

"But, Lassie—" Shawn started.

"_Now!"_

Two uniformed officers went over and accompanied Shawn out of the sty. He continued yelling for Lassiter, but the detective ignored him. Between the shooting pain in his leg and the raging fury clouding his vision, it wasn't hard to do.

One of the uniforms approached him with a first-aid kit and helped him pull off the tall rubber boot. The officer told him it would be a good idea for him to head to the hospital. Lassiter looked down at his leg. His pants were ruined beyond repair now, ripped and stained with mud, pig slop and blood. He pulled the fabric away from his wound. A trip to the hospital would be a good idea; the bite was ragged and beginning to swell. Still, Lassiter's day had sucked enough already. A long wait in an emergency room was not what he needed right now.

"Screw the hospital," Lassiter said as he climbed out of the sty. "I'm going home."

* * *

Eight hours and many pills later, Lassiter finally was able to get the sharp pain in his ankle reduced to a dull throb. He'd be lucky if he'd be able to walk on it at all tomorrow. It had been a struggle just to drive home on it. Lassiter had jumped into the tub the minute he was through his front door, washing the day's mud, sweat and blood away. Afterwards, he'd washed and wrapped his wound with a clean sock. The swelling had gone down considerably since that afternoon, but it still hurt to put his weight on. Thanks to Shawn, he'd be stuck at his desk for at least a week.

"Spencer," Lassiter cursed to himself. Just hearing his name was enough to piss him off. Shawn, the man who always bungled his way into his crime scenes, only to show Lassiter up at the end. Shawn, who made a mockery of police work with every case he solved. Shawn, who constantly invaded his personal space by touching him and spent way too much time calling him "handsome."

Lassiter stood up suddenly from the living room couch where he had dressed his wound and limped his way into his bedroom. Thinking about Shawn was only serving to give him a headache. He needed sleep. He'd deal with Shawn tomorrow.

Lassiter had just gotten comfortable when he heard an insistent knocking at his front door.

_Of course, this day can't end peacefully,_ he thought as he sat up. He looked over at the clock on his dresser. The bright red numbers read 1:24 a.m. It was too late for any polite visitors and anyone at the station would have called first.

His unexpected guest knocked again. Whoever it was, they were agitated. That got Lassiter nervous. Easing out of bed, he grabbed the small gun he kept in his nightstand and slowly made his way to the front door.

He peered out the peephole, but could see nothing but his empty front porch. He stood to the side of his door and crouched down. The pain in his ankle flared up. Acting before his leg gave way completely, Lassiter flung the door open and aimed his gun. Right at a first-aid kit. Shawn was there, too, kneeling on one knee, holding the kit up like some sort of religious offering.

"Spencer. Why am I surprised?" Lassiter stood up, leaning heavily on his front door.

"Hey, Lassie," Shawn's face was hidden by the kit. "How's the ankle?"

"Better before I was forced to investigate my own front porch."

Shawn snorted. "Paranoid much?"

"Forgive my cautiousness," Lassiter said sarcastically. "What the hell are you doing here this late?" Lassiter looked down and realized Shawn was still kneeling. "And will you stand up?"

Shawn stood, but continued to hold the first-aid kit in front of him as if it were some sort of shield. Standing fully in the front porch light, Lassiter could see that Shawn was still wearing his filthy clothes from this afternoon.

"I thought I'd come over and see how your ankle was doing," Shawn said, "I didn't get to ask before I left the hog farm earlier."

"You mean after you were escorted off the property after getting a wild animal to attack me."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Petunia was hardly wild. Nevertheless, I'm here to make amends. May I come in?"

Any other time, Lassiter would have said no. As a matter of fact, he would have said no this time, but before he could answer, Shawn pushed past him and sat down on his living room couch.

"Spencer, I just want to go to sleep. Will you please get out of here?"

Shawn sighed. "Seriously, Lassie. I just want to check out your ankle. Let me make sure it's alright, and I promise I'll leave and let you sleep." Shawn looked up at him, his green eyes sincere.

Lassiter was stuck. It was a reasonable request, and it'd probably be easier just to give in rather than try and force Shawn out. He closed his front door, turned on a lamp and flopped down next to the other man.

"Fine, just make this quick."

Shawn grabbed his wounded leg and pulled it into his lap. He carefully unpinned the sock and tossed it on the ground with a sigh.

"A sock? Oh, Lassie you deserve better." Shawn murmured quietly.

"I didn't have any bandages," Lassiter said somewhat embarrassed. From his seat, he had a perfect view of Shawn's profile. His hair was sticking up every which way. Mud was caked in his hair, in his ears and underneath his chin. He looked tired and in need of sleep himself. "Why are you still wearing those clothes?"

Shawn laughed to himself as he used a pair of tweezers to pick grit and sock lint out of Lassiter's wound. "Gus refused to let me ride home in his car. I swear he's more protective of that car than my parents ever were of me."

"And? What does that have to do with your clothes?"

"I haven't been home yet, Lassie. It's a long walk from my father's house."

"You went to your Dad's?"

"I had to get a first-aid kit from somewhere."

"And you walked from there?"

"Henry wouldn't give me a ride, either."

"Ahh..." was all Lassiter could think to say. Shawn had come to see him at the expense of his own hygiene. It was flattering in a strange sort of way. Lassiter didn't know how he could stand the smell, however. His own car would probably smell of pigs for a month.

Shawn continued to work in silence. He pulled a sanitizing cream out of the kit and spread it on Lassiter's wound. Lassiter was surprised by how gentle Shawn's fingers were.

"I'm sorry, Lassie." Shawn had spoken so quietly, Lassiter thought he might have imagined it.

"Come again?"

Shawn lightly ran his hands on the skin around Lassiter's wound, being careful not to cause him more pain. "I said, I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"What did you think would come of wallowing around in a pig sty?"

Shawn just shrugged silently. "It wasn't supposed to…I don't know."

"Oh c'mon, Spencer. I've known you long enough to know you must have had some plan."

Shawn pulled a long, clean bandage out of the kit and began to wind it around Lassiter's leg. "A nip. I thought at most, you'd get nipped at. I didn't think the thing would take a bite out of you."

"What would be the point of being nipped?"

"It would have hurt, but not this bad. I just wanted you to see that there was no way the victim could have slept through being eaten. Someone dumped him there to mislead us."

"Who would do that?"

"The farmer's wife."

That was unexpected. The farmer's wife was a small, timid woman who never left her husband's side. Lassiter couldn't see her raising her voice at someone, let alone her fists.

"Why? What would be her motive?"

"She probably didn't plan to. From what the other workers have told me, our victim was a drunken jerk. And from what the spirits have told me, he was most likely a sexually harassing, drunken jerk. A woman can only take so much."

Lassiter thought about it; Shawn's theory made sense. At the very least, it deserved further investigation.

"Why didn't you just say that?"

Shawn looked over at Lassiter. "Well, until you got bit, this way was much more fun." There was a mischievous look in Shawn's eyes that made Lassiter shiver. He prayed Shawn didn't notice it.

A comfortable silence fell over them again. Lassiter watched Shawn as he tightened and arranged the bandage.

"You're pretty good at this," Lassiter said, surprise evident in his voice.

"I worked as a medic at a mountain-side base camp for a summer," Shawn said.

"Ahh…" For the second time that evening, Lassiter had found himself at a loss as to what to say. It was much harder to deal with Shawn when he was being serious.

Shawn attached the metal fasteners to the bandage and gently rotated Lassiter's foot. "There. All better."

Lassiter lifted his foot up and moved it up and down, back and forth. He had to admit it felt better. The cream had a cooling effect that left his skin tingling and Shawn's gentle ministrations had eased some of the stiffness out of the surrounding muscle.

"Thanks, Spencer. I appreciate it."

Shawn looked at him with a warm smile on his face. "Well, I've been trying."

"What are you talking about? You've only been here ten minutes."

Shawn shook his head in self-disgust. "Dude, look I know I get on your nerves and I know I'm not your most favorite person at the station, but I have been trying to be less of a bother to you."

Lassiter thought back to the last few weeks. It was true; Shawn hadn't been as obnoxious as he was capable of being. His hare-brained schemes had become more restrained, his rule-breaking less flagrant and his bantering less disrespectful. Lassiter thought back to this afternoon when he'd admitted that Shawn was less annoying than usual. Getting used to Shawn's antics was one thing; learning that he was toning them down for his benefit was something else all together.

The air in the room suddenly felt thick with…something. Lassiter watched as Shawn packed up the kit, only to be hit by the thought that he didn't want him to leave.

"Spencer, it's late. You can't be planning on walking home?"

Shawn smiled. "I'll be fine, Lassie. You go on to bed." He stood up and dusted the dirt off Lassiter's couch.

Lassiter pushed himself off the couch and hobbled behind Shawn. "Do you at least want a ride?"

Shawn shook his head. "I'm not going to make you drive on that leg."

Shawn stopped at the front door and began fiddling with the knob. He seemed to be waiting for something. Try as he might, Lassiter couldn't think of anything else that might convince Shawn to stay. Nothing that wasn't too close to the truth, anyway.

"Then, I guess…" Lassiter started dumbly. He cursed himself. Now was not the time to be acting like an awkward teenager.

"Ya know," Shawn said suddenly, "if you feel like being generous, think I could take a shower before I go?" He let go of the doorknob and turned to face Lassiter.

Lassiter considered it. Shawn Spencer naked, in his shower and less than twenty feet away. He found the thought uncomfortably delicious.

"I suppose that's fair," Lassiter said studying Shawn's face for a reaction. A smile broke out on his dirt-streaked face.

"There's still these clothes, though," Shawn said, holding his arms away from his body. The corners of his mouth drew up slowly in a smug grin.

Lassiter felt his mouth go dry. He prayed he wasn't misreading Shawn. "Well, then I guess we'll have to wash those, too."

Shawn's face broke into a full-blown smile. "Hmmm…that might take a while, Lassie."

"Guess you'll just have to wait here, then." Lassiter surprised himself with his own forwardness.

Shawn just smiled and propelled himself into Lassiter's personal space. "I thought you'd never ask." Shawn leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on Lassiter's lips. The kiss was off-center; touching the corner of Lassiter's mouth more than anything.

When Shawn pulled away, Lassiter couldn't move. He could barely think.

"Uhh…thank you," he said softly. Shawn just chuckled, gave him another quick kiss and headed into the bathroom.

Lassiter eased himself back on the couch. As the sound of the running shower and the smell of Irish Spring soap filled the apartment, Lassiter thought back to the day's events. True, he'd been forced to wallow in pig muck, but it got Shawn nice and dirty. A man had died, but they had a potential suspect. And a giant sow had tried to eat him, but that pig bite had brought Shawn into his apartment, into his shower and in kissing-range.

Turns out Sweet Lady Justice did love him.

He'd always suspected as much.

* * *

**AN:** So...yeah. From cocoa-butter cake to man-eating pigs. Something must be wrong with me. I honestly have no idea where this came from. At my previous job, I worked with a bunch of farmers/ranchers who shared _wonderful_ stories of pigs eating things. Let's just say they don't discriminate. The idea of a murderer hiding the evidence in a pig sty came up and, well, you've read the rest.

As always, thanks for the reviews, especially those reviews for Shot VI. I wasn't too confident about that one, so the positive feedback was such a relief.

Thanks for reading and as always, reviews are appreciated!


	8. VIII: Tears

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot VIII: Tears**

"You're crying."

"Am not."

Shawn Spencer placed his hands on either side of the face in front of him and wiped the drops of moisture away with the pads of his thumbs.

"Really?" he asked with a faint smile. "Then, your face is leaking water for some other reason."

"It's nothing," Carlton Lassiter whispered. He tried to pull his head away, but the hands holding on to him wouldn't give.

"Head Detective Carlton Lassiter doesn't cry over 'nothing'," Shawn said with a hint of pride in his voice. He pressed his forehead to Carlton's and ruffled the other man's mussed hair. Carlton could feel the warmth of Shawn's freshly showered skin radiating through his thin nightshirt. Carlton closed his eyes and tried to soak up as much warmth—as much Shawn—as he could.

"Talk to me," Shawn said lowering his voice to a soft whisper.

Carlton was trying valiantly not to give in. To not let himself fall into Shawn's arms and make a fool out of himself by crying like some emotional, overly sensitive little girl. He'd stick to his tried and true coping methods: avoidance and denial.

_Breathe in, breathe out, _Carlton told himself as he took several deep breaths. The action seemed to give him a bit more control over the crushing grief with which he'd spent the last twelve hours fighting.

"I told you, it's nothing," he said with a catch in his voice. _Dammit,_ that's _convincing, _he thought. His frustration caused his eyes to water.

"You're leaking again," Shawn said, wiping the tears away.

Carlton just shook his head sadly, not trusting his voice.

Shawn sighed. "You'll feel better if you talk."

Carlton shook his head again, before inhaling and exhaling deeply.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

He cleared his throat. "There's nothing to talk about. Just tired. Tough day."

Shawn stared at him quietly for a few moments. "You're a great detective, Carly, but," he leaned in to give Carlton three quick pecks, "even you can't save everyone."

And with those words, he lost control again.

"How can you say that?" he whispered. "If we had searched harder or worked faster, we could have...we could have..." The emotion he had been struggling to keep at bay was beginning to overwhelm him. "She was 5 years old...tortured...we could have saved her," he finished lamely.

Carlton felt two tears as they escaped his eyes and made their way down his face. He turned his head away. He couldn't stand the idea of someone seeing him this way, even if it was only Shawn.

Shawn gently turned his head back and wiped the tears away. "You don't know that," he said quietly.

Carlton nodded. "Yes, I do."

Shawn just gave him a sad smile and kissed him.

Shawn obviously decided drop the subject, and for that, Carlton was grateful. He couldn't deal with this. At the moment, all he wanted to do was sleep and forget.

Carlton lowered Shawn's arms from his head and pulled him into an embrace. He breathed in deeply, finding comfort in the scent of Shawn's coconut-scented shampoo.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

After regaining some composure, Carlton released Shawn, grabbed him by the hand and lead him to the bed. He flopped down on the cool sheets, pulling Shawn up against him. He relished the feeling of Shawn's body, warm and safe, next to his.

Carlton had failed today. A child was dead because he failed. _He_ failed and _she_ was the one who had to die. The death of a child hit Carlton like nothing else ever did. Not that it mattered. He could bawl or cuss or pray, it wouldn't bring her back. _He_ couldn't bring her back. All Carlton could do was make sure the son-of-bitch who killed her never saw the light of day again.

_Yeah, that'll fix every fucking thing._

Grief, so strong he thought it would choke him, rose up and squeezed his heart.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

He couldn't do it. He couldn't hold it in. The guilt was just too strong. So, as he lay in the darkness, he allowed the tears to silently roll down his face. He pressed his face into the crook of Shawn's neck and closed his eyes as the sound of Shawn's breathing, soft and steady, lulled him to sleep.

* * *

**A/N**: Six weeks. Six _whole _weeks. One and a half months. That's how much time my computer spent at Local Computer Repair shop before I had to mail it off to the manufacturer. Completely threw off my creative juices, so please forgive me if this piece seems to go nowhere. Writer's block is a bitch. The only way I know to bust through it is to write something and get inspiration from the feedback I receive.

Well, I hope somebody enjoyed this fluffy, angsty (flangsty?) entry. I had an unusually hard time with this because I wasn't really sure where I wanted it to go. Keeping Lassie in character as he dealt with some extreme emotion was tough, too. Anyways, thanks for reading and as always, reviews are appreciated. =)


	9. IX: Risks

Disclaimer: Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

A/N: Lassie needs advice so he turns to the one man who knows Shawn best: Burton Guster.

* * *

**Shot IX: Risks**

No one could fully comprehend the risks Burton Guster faced simply by being best friends with Shawn Spencer.

There was the ever present risk of being arrested. That had been one of Gus' biggest worries, even before they started lying to the police department.

There was the risk of physical injury as a result of one of Shawn ludicrous plans. Gus had been shot at and hit upside the head more times than he could remember (whether that was due to sheer number of hits or possible brain injury was another matter).

Today, Gus somehow found himself facing both of those potential consequences. Apparently, Carlton Lassiter had requested to speak with him personally.

Carlton Lassiter, who always seemed to be angry.

Carlton Lassiter, who always seemed to be angry _and_ armed.

Carlton Lassiter, who always seemed to be angry _and_ armed _and_ who had been seeing Shawn romantically for the last nine months.

Needless to say, Gus was worried. He had been since yesterday afternoon when Shawn had passed along the frightening message.

_"What in the hell could Lassiter possibly have to say to me?" he'd asked agitatedly._

_Shawn had shrugged. "Fashion tips?"_

_"He's dating you. _You_ dress him."_

_"I prefer to undress him," Shawn said matter-of-factly._

_"Seriously, Shawn. What does he want?"_

_"Seriously, dude. I don't know."_

_"He's your boyfriend. You gotta know something."_

_"Now, now, Gus. You know how Lassie feels about the word 'boyfriend,'" Shawn had replied. "He's a man, not a boy." He gave Gus a naughty grin. "Trust me, I've made sure of that."_

_"Shawn!" Gus had yelped in disgust. "See? That's exactly what I don't want to have to listen to."_

_Shawn chuckled to himself. "Really? Well, remind me to never have you two sleep over at the same time. Despite all outward appearances, Lassie's a screamer."_

_"Shawn!"_

That had been the end of that conversation. Gus had been haunted with mental audio clips of Lassiter sex-screaming. Gus hadn't even known mental audio clips were possible.

The police station was buzzing with activity by the time Gus finally worked up the courage to head over there. People shoved past him as they entered and exited the bullpen in hurried excitement. Papers and folders sat in stacks that nearly reached his head. The sound of ringing telephones mixed with the sound of the gruff orders that were being barked from nearly every corner of the room. A television sat in the center of the pen with the afternoon news blaring loudly.

_"...night more than fifty people were arrested in a drug trafficking sting for what police are calling the largest drug ring to be seen in this area. The Santa Barbara Police Department estimate that the ring was responsible for pushing thousands of pounds of cocaine in the area during the last two years...."_

A bust. That explained all the excitement. Nothing got the police more hopped up than drugs. Perhaps today wasn't a good day to visit. This trip could probably be moved to next week. Or next month.

Or never.

_Yes, never works for me._ With that thought, Gus swung around and began tried to sneak out of the pen as quickly as he could.

"Guster!" A familiar angry voice rose from the hubbub. "Looking for me?"

Dammit, Lassiter had spotted him. And was shouting. Shouting was too close to screaming for Gus' comfort at the moment.

He turned to head back into the pen. Lassiter was at his desk with a wall of papers surrounding him. He had a folder open in front of him and was writing furiously.

Gus felt incredibly awkward. Despite his friend's relationship with the man, Gus had never really gotten to know the dark-haired detective well. He still couldn't think of a thing that Lassiter would want to talk with him about.

Well...that wasn't entirely true. There was the possibility that Lassiter wanted to talk about Shawn. Besides Henry, Gus couldn't think of anyone who knew Shawn as well as he did. And Lassiter wasn't likely to go to Henry for advice about Shawn, not if Gus was available to intimidate.

That thought caused the nervousness in Gus' stomach to become knotted up into full-blown fear. If Lassiter wanted to talk about Shawn that meant one of two things: that Lassiter had either found out the truth about Shawn's psychic ability or worse, Lassiter needed relationship advice.

He approached Lassiter's desk hesitantly. Both the man and the desk were a mess. Lassiter's usually pressed and starched shirt was rumpled and unkempt. His hair looked in desperate need of a comb and dark smudges marred the skin under his eyes. Half-eaten food, newspapers and empty coffee cups littered his usually neat desk. It appeared as if Lassiter hadn't been home in days.

At a loss as to what to say, Gus just cleared his throat.

"Afternoon, Guster," Lassiter said without looking up. "I take it you got my message?"

"Yeah," Gus answered in a voice that sounded way too high. He cleared his throat again. "Shawn said you needed to speak with me."

Lassiter just nodded and continued to fill out his paperwork.

"You know, he didn't really say what you needed me for."

No answer from the detective.

"Is this about a case or something?" Gus asked hopefully.

Lassiter shook his head in annoyance. "Not about a case, Guster."

_Damn. Then it is about Shawn! He knows! He knows and he's trying to take me down, too_.

"Look, Lassiter, why am I here? Is this about Shawn? Whatever he's done has nothing to do with me. In fact, I neither need nor care to know what he's done," Gus' voice rose in panic. "He's a grown man whom I have no—"

Lassiter snapped the manila folder holding his paperwork closed and quickly stood up.

"Keep it down, Guster," he said quietly. "People are trying to work."

Gus looked around and saw a few nearby officers staring at him and the detective. Most had the decency to pretend to be reading a report or their computer screen, while a few brazen onlookers were gaping openly at him. A quick glare from the detective got them to drop their gaze.

"Follow me," Lassiter said in a low voice. "We're not talking here."

"Why can't we just—"

Lassiter cut him off. "We're not talking here." He placed the folder on the closest stack and moved from behind his desk. He removed his jacket and threw it on the back of his chair. Gus heard the detective mumble a sad "please, Guster" before walking off.

Lassiter wanted to speak with Gus alone. In private. With no one else listening or watching. That could only mean one thing: Lassiter was going to kill him.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Gus was still alive and sitting in the well-lit and, thankfully, windowed interview room. He could still see the busy foot traffic of the pen, but the noise was reduced to a low rumble.

He sat across from Lassiter, still unsure as to what the detective wanted from him. Gus knew that Lassiter wasn't one for small talk. He knew that he wasn't comfortable discussing his personal life with other people. Nevertheless, as they sat silently at the large wooden table, Gus was beginning to get impatient. Fifteen minutes was long enough to get over your awkwardness, fall onto the awkward mat and win the awkward gold for awkward pole vault.

"Lassiter?" He broke the silence uneasily. "Look, I don't know anything. Really. Whatever you think I know, I don't."

"How long have you known Shawn?" Lassiter asked.

The non sequitur caught Gus by surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You're best friends, right? That means you must have known him for some time. How long?"

"I'm not really sure," Gus answered. "As long as I can remember, so at least twenty-five years."

The number seemed to impress Lassiter. "That's a long time."

"I guess," Gus muttered. "Where are you going with this?"

"Has he always been..." Lassiter seemed to struggle to find the right word, "you know, the way he is?"

"What, psychic?" Gus rushed to ask.

"No," Lassiter scowled. "You know, just the way he is."

"No, I don't know," Gus said defensively. "What way is he?"

Lassiter went silent again. He turned away from the table and stared out the glass doors. The officers in the pen bustled about with some kind of renewed urgency. It appeared as if new boxes of evidence arrived and the techs and detectives worked to label and organize it all.

"Hear about the bust?" Lassiter asked turning back to face Gus.

"Yeah, I saw it on the news." Gus decided not to question the change in topic.

"One of the biggest busts this department's ever seen."

"You all did a good job."

Lassiter just shook his head, dismissing the compliment.

"Look, if you need to go back to work—" Gus began.

Lassiter waved his comment away. "I've more than earned a lunch break."

Silence again. Lassiter turned to face the window again.

"We got a tip. An old woman whose son OD'ed. She reported seeing her son hanging around some suspicious characters. She didn't think anything of it, not until he died. She didn't even know he was using. Turns out, he was dealing for them for the last ten years."

Gus wanted to ask what the hell any of this had to do with him or Shawn. The haunted look on Lassiter's face kept him quiet.

"She and her husband were emptying out his house. Preparing to sell it, I guess. She found his address book, but she said she didn't recognize any of the names in it. Best tip we could have gotten; it was full of customers' names, addresses and phone numbers. I went over to her place to interview her and she showed me a picture of her son."

Lassiter went silent. His mouth was set in a firm line and his eyes were staring intently into the center of the table. He appeared to be caught up in the memory.

"And?" Gus asked.

"Light brown hair, green eyes, scruffy looking, goofy-ass smile. Who does that remind you of?"

"Shawn," Gus said quietly.

"Yeah. The resemblance was amazing. Scared the hell out of me. Made me realize something."

Gus cleared his throat. "Look, Lassiter, I don't know what any of this means, but you should be telling this to Shawn not me."

"I did."

"And?" Gus asked again.

Lassiter was quiet for a beat. "Did Shawn tell you we were fighting?" he asked suddenly.

"Fighting?"

"Well, 'having a disagreement'."

Gus shook his head. "No, I prefer to know as little as possible about you two's relationship."

Lassiter leaned back and crossed his arms. "So I guess that means Shawn didn't tell you what we're arguing about?"

"No! Will you stick with one topic?" Gus insisted.

Lassiter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I ... um ... I asked him to marry me."

Gus stared at Lassiter incredulously. Lassiter stared back.

Gus opened his mouth to say something.

"..."

Nope, nothing. There was nothing he could think to say in reply to hearing that Carlton Lassiter had asked his best friend to marry him.

"Guster? Are you alright?" Lassiter leaned forward to get a closer look at the man across from him.

"I'm fine." Gus answered slowly as he finally thought of an appropriate response. "You're lying."

"What?"

"There is no way you asked Shawn to marry you."

"And why is that?"

"I don't know!" Gus said flustered. "Shawn annoys you. You may be sleeping with him, but marriage? After your last one, I thought you'd be through with marriage."

Lassiter's shoulders sagged. "It's been five years since my split with Victoria," he said quietly. "Almost two since the divorce was finalized. I'm a different person than I was in that marriage. I'd like to give it a shot."

"Well," Gus started awkwardly, "you do know that you can't legally, ... you know, in this state. Not anymore."

"It's not about the law. I just wanted..." Lassiter straightened. "Look it doesn't matter. It's not happening."

"Why? What did Shawn say?"

"What do you think he said?" Lassiter snapped, bitterness dripping off each word. "He made a joke of it. Something about me in a dress." Lassiter's face flushed in embarrassment. "We haven't spoken since."

"How long is 'since'?" Gus asked.

"Two days, I guess. No words except for when I told him I needed to talk to you."

When it came to ignoring loved ones, two days was nothing for Shawn. He'd ignored his father for years.

"Call Shawn. Let him know he hurt your feelings. I'm sure he'll apologize."

"He didn't hurt my feelings," Lassiter mocked. "It's just...does he take anything seriously?" He whispered the last part quietly, but Gus could still hear the detective's hurt.

"No, not really." Gus sighed. As much as Lassiter pissed him off, Gus could relate to his pain. Shawn didn't do serious, at least not like other people did. He made jokes, he laughed things off. Things like his father dating and his parents' spilt. And apparently things like marriage proposals.

"Shawn isn't the type who deals with heavy stuff," Gus began apologetically. "Goes back to his childhood, I guess. He doesn't like being caught off guard."

"So where does that leave me? He may not be serious, but I—" Lassiter stopped himself, practically choking on his words. "So I guess his answer is 'no', huh?" Lassiter gave a weak laugh as he asked the question. His eyes were suspiciously shiny.

"I wouldn't jump to that conclusion," Gus said. If Shawn wanted to reject Lassiter's proposal, he'd have to do it himself. No way Gus was going to break Lassiter's heart for him. Crying Lassiter was right up there with Screaming Lassiter on his list of "Things I'd Have to Rip Out My Own Eardrums Upon Hearing" list.

"You know him better than anyone. Do you think…?"

"Do I think what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Look, you asked to speak to me for a reason. Just spit it out."

"Does he care? About me? About you? About...anything?"

Gus would be lying if said he'd never asked himself that question. Like in the fifth grade when Shawn had 'borrowed' his homework to copy from and left it out in the rain overnight, resulting in Gus' one and only 'F'. Or in the eleventh grade when Shawn and Cynthia Carey had made-out, even though Gus was sure Shawn knew Gus was head over heels in love with the girl (that had been the biggest fight of their friendship). Or last week, when Shawn had signed Gus up to participate in a scientific study of rather embarrassing bathroom habits in exchange for a $40 gift certificate to Wal-Mart.

"Sometimes," Gus began, "Shawn can be a little...insensitive. I've learned to put up with some of his issues. I ignore most of them. Hang out with other, more well-adjusted friends when he gets to be too much. But," Gus raised his brown eyes up to meet the detective's blue ones, "I know he cares. He just doesn't show it like most people do."

"So you're saying I should just take what I can get?" Lassiter asked bitterly. "Just accept his eccentricities and let him do whatever he wants?"

"No," Gus said calmly, tracing the table's wood grain with his finger. "I'm saying ... I'm saying Shawn's worth it. Despite all he's done, we're still friends. He may be unbalanced, but he's always been there when I need him." Like the time Mary Snell had laughed at him when he'd asked her to dance at the eighth grade spring formal and Shawn had "accidentally" locked her in a janitor's closet for the entire evening. Or the first year of college when Shawn had helped him stay awake for two whole days to study for a test on the history of agriculture. Or last Christmas, when his parents were accused of killing Old Man Fuller and Shawn had worked his ass off to prove their innocence.

Lassiter sighed. "So what now?"

"Just remember this, Lassiter: with Shawn, actions speak louder than words. He didn't leave town or anything after your fight. That means something."

"Should I call him?"

"If you think he's worth it."

Lassiter cocked his head and seemed to think on that. Whatever conclusion he reached must have been a good one, because the smallest of smiles appeared on the detective's face.

"Yes," he whispered. "He's worth it."

Gus was surprised by the sense of relief washed over him. His sub-conscience couldn't possibly be rooting for Lassiter and Shawn to get back together. That would be too disturbing for words.

The detective exhaled loudly and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "Well, enough gossiping. I've got work to do," he said as he stood and began straightening his shirt. And with not another word, he swung open the glass doors and walked out into the busy pen.

"You're welcome, Lassiter," Gus said to Lassiter's empty chair. "And don't worry, I'll see myself out."

* * *

A whole week passed before Gus ran into Lassiter again. Or rather, a whole week passed before Lassiter showed up at his front door with a plane ticket.

"Hawaii? What's in Hawaii?" Gus asked reading the ticket's itinerary.

"Me and Shawn," Lassiter had replied, somewhat embarrassed. "It's sort of a ... honeymoon of sorts."

"Honeymoon? So are you two...? He agreed?"

"He hasn't told you?"

"No," Gus said firmly. "Remember? I try to know as little as possible about you two."

The detective rolled his eyes. "Right."

"So what? You two are married now?"

Lassiter smiled and ducked his head. "Not really. Apparently, he's afraid of making such a big promise to God. But he made it to me. And I'll take it."

"You're inviting me to your honeymoon? Dude, that's sick."

Lassiter's face flushed pink. "_I'm_ not inviting you. _Shawn_ wants you to come. Said something about treating you to a vacation and a carriage ride. Whatever the hell that means."

Gus studied the ticket. "In other words, _you're_ treating me to a vacation and a carriage ride."

Lassiter just shrugged. "Whatever. I don't mind, Guster. I owe you, too."

Gus tucked the ticket in his shirt pocket. "Well, thanks." Lassiter just smiled and began to make his way down the front steps and to his car. "Guess I gotta call my travel agent about a hotel and stuff," Gus said to himself.

"Actually, that's taken care of. Shawn rented a house near some beach."

Dread, thick and heavy, began to sink in Gus' stomach. "A house?"

"Yeah," Lassiter snorted, oblivious to the other man's change in attitude. "For some reason he was real excited about the three of us staying together at—"

Gus didn't hear the rest. Just slammed his door and lowered himself to the floor as the details of the trip swirled around in his head. He would be sharing a house with Shawn and Lassiter on what was basically their honeymoon. They would be doing things...things he didn't want to think about. With him right there.

Maybe Shawn was just kidding about the screaming. Maybe it the house would be big enough to silence them. Maybe...

Gus took the ticket out of his pocket and ripped it up. Some things just weren't worth the risk.

* * *

**A/N:** Hmmm....that was different. We so rarely see Gus interacting with Lassiter by himself. It was weird to write. Gus' humor is also harder to write. He has that dry, straight-man thing going for him.

I haven't been updating as often, due to studying for the GRE (The GRE: Guaranteed to make you feel like a complete idiot or your money back!)

As always, thank you to everyone who's read and/or reviewed thus far. You make me happy. =) Hope you all enjoyed this entry and look forward to any reviews you may leave.


	10. X: Cartoons

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot X: Cartoons**

Shawn Spencer had always loved Saturday mornings. Saturday mornings meant sleeping in. Saturday mornings meant IHOP banana-nut pancake breakfasts on Gus' dime. Saturday mornings meant hours of animated entertainment that contained little to no plot. Of course, there was nothing stopping Shawn from enjoying those delights any other day of the week (except the pancake breakfasts; Gus never fully appreciated pancakes as much as he should have).

This particular Saturday morning was even more special. There was something about sitting on Carlton Lassiter's worn couch watching children's programming that felt sacred and extraordinary. Shawn was certain that there were many other people who got the chance to sit on this couch. Carlton didn't socialize much and his love life had been even more pathetic. Well...that is until recently.

It had been six weeks ago that Shawn had first shoved his hands into Carlton's perfectly coiffed hair, pushed up against a perfectly pressed suit and learned that the detective was anything but perfectly straight. Wonderfully crooked and more than a little lonely, if one were to go by the bruises and scratches left on Shawn's flesh. Lust and loneliness was the only explanation Shawn could think of for why this thing they'd started had lasted as long as it did. He knew that even with the great sex, he still annoyed the hell out of the other man. It was only a matter of time before they both got sick of each other. Shawn had decided early on that instead of worrying about when that time would come, he'd simply sit back, enjoy and hope that they'd be able to keep this up for just a few weeks longer.

And that, of course, led back to the joy of this Saturday morning. Just a few hours ago, Shawn had left the sleeping (and extremely satisfied, thankyouverymuch!) detective to bask in the serenity of Carlton's apartment. He stretched out on the couch, placing his bare feet on the coffee table. He was well aware that the action went against Carlton's anal-retentive house rules, but nothing had proven to be more fun than seeing how agitated he could get the other man. Mock his appearance. Mess up his house. Break all his little rules. See just how red his face could get and how tight his muscles could clench. Because when Carlton got angry, well, Shawn had learned there was really only one way to calm him back down.

Shawn picked up the TV remote and turned the volume up until the cartoon's childish jingle echoed throughout the apartment. Hopefully, the noise would lure a grouchy Carlton out of the bedroom.

"Aren't you a little old to be watching cartoons?" a husky voice called out from the bedroom a few minutes later.

"Oh, sorry Carly," Shawn yelled over the sound of annoyingly cheerful children and crusty sea captain singing about the merits of a rather absorbent underwater kitchen sponge. "Did my animated adventures wake you?"

Carlton came shuffling into the living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His usually immaculate hair was sticking away from his head this-way-and-that and he was wearing nothing but a pair of gray, loose knit pajama bottoms. Carlton lowered his hands to glare at the lounging man on his couch. The look was meant to intimidate but instead, Shawn found him adorably rumpled.

"Is there a reason you have the volume up so loud?" the dark-haired detective asked.

"That's the only way to watch Saturday morning cartoons, Carly. They were made to be played at high volume and to annoy as many uptight adults as possible." Shawn smiled at him and patted the seat next to him. "Care to join?"

Carlton seemed to linger in the hallway a minute before deciding to ditch all efforts of getting more sleep. He flopped down on the couch next to Shawn, who immediately flipped over and placed his head on Carlton's lap. Shawn was surprised when instead of pushing him off, Carlton began playing with his hair.

"You never answered my question."

"What question would that be, Carly?"

"Aren't you a little old for cartoons? This show looks like it was made for elementary schoolers. You're what…almost thirty?"

Shawn grinned. "Cartoons are universal, Carly. Brightly colored moving pictures? What's not to love? I mean this stuff isn't as good as the stuff that was on the air when we were kids, but it's OK."

The fingers in his head stilled, then resumed their ministrations much slower than before. Shawn turned from the television to look up at Carlton's face.

"You did watch cartoons as a child?"

"No, Shawn, I didn't," Carlton answered, exasperated. "We only had one TV in my house my mother rarely let me watch it."

"You couldn't sneak over to a friend's house?"

Carlton sighed. "Give it a rest, Spencer."

_Spencer._ Carlton only resorted to calling him that when he was nervous or insecure. Recently, Shawn had realized that his constant pop-culture references left the other man feeling confused and un-hip.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Carly," he said. "I didn't watch a lot of cartoons, either."

Shawn met the other man's eyes as Carlton frowned and looked down at the head cradled in his lap. "That's....surprising. From the way you and Guster talk, I figure you did nothing but sit in front of the TV for most of your childhood."

Shawn grinned, albeit bitterly. "Movies were OK, but Henry didn't let me watch a lot of TV. If it wasn't _COPS_ or_ CHiPs_, I didn't watch it. Most of what I did see I watched at Gus', but his parents didn't let him watch much either. Something about overstimulating him."

Carlton just gave an amused snort and looked up at the TV screen. Shawn studied the other man. No cartoons for kiddie Carlton, huh? The more Shawn thought about it, the more he realized that didn't surprise him. The mess with Old Senora had taught him a great deal about his favorite detective. There was nothing about Carlton that said "happy childhood." The man's devotion to the place was beyond mere childhood nostalgia. It was the his binky, his security blanket. Shawn's childhood had been no picnic either, but he at least had Gus. Shawn felt a sudden stab of pity as he realized that Old Senora was Carlton's Gus.

Shawn cuddled in closer to Carlton, to the point that his ear was touching the other man's abdomen. The faint echo of the other man's heart mingled with the sound of hollow squishes of his empty stomach. Shawn reflected that there couldn't be anything in the world more intimate than listening to someone's digestive system.

"Shawn, what the hell is this mess?" Carlton's voice reverberated throughout his body, the vibrations tickling Shawn's ear. "What kind of show has a sponge for a star."

"A great show, Carly," Shawn said, turning his eyes back to the TV. "A great one."

"Is he singing a song about tying his shoe?"

"Technically the snail is playing the song on the record play in his shell. The sponge is just dancing to it."

"How can this possibly entertain you?" Carlton asked, looking down at the head in his lap. "The plot is ridiculous."

Shawn smirked. "I don't watch for the plots, Carly. I watch for the subtext."

"Excuse me?"

"Subtext, you know. All the stuff the writers hint at but never come out and say."

"I see," Carlton said skeptically. "And what are they hinting at in this one?"

Shawn swung his legs off the couch and lifted his head off Carlton's lap. "Well," he said as he stood and headed for the small kitchen, "that depends who you ask. Gus seems to think that the sponge and his best friend are lovers."

Carlton didn't respond. Shawn pulled two cereal bowls out of a kitchen cabinet and placed them carelessly on the counter. He tossed two clean spoons next to them, then headed over to the pantry.

"Which one's the best friend?" Carlton asked.

"The fat pink dude," Shawn answered as he swung open the narrow pantry door and examined its contents. Like everything else in the apartment, it was impeccably organized: boxes, jars and cans sat separated from each other with the tallest items in back. Each item was turned so that the label could be read without having to move anything.

"What?" Carlton yelped. "Him? I thought this was a kids' show. What the hell is wrong with Guster?"

Shawn just chuckled. Carlton's reaction was rather right of center for someone who'd been having a whole heap of man-sex lately.

"Don't worry, Carly. Gus is totally wrong." Shawn looked over the shelf that held the boxes until he found what he was looking for. "Fiber One" he mumbled to himself in disappointment. Of course Carlton would have fiber cereal. Man as retentive as him must have needed a lot of digestive help. With a snort of disgust, he pulled the narrow box out of the pantry and closed the door with a light kick. He grabbed up the bowls and spoons, pulled a half-empty carton of milk out of the fridge and made his way back to the living room.

"Dude, your kitchen is more organized than New Jersey crime."

Carlton looked up him and made a face. "What?"

"It's early, Carly. They can't all be gems." Shawn dumped the items on the coffee table.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Carly'?"

"You don't like it?"

"Not really."

"Well then, remind me to keep using it."

The detective's jaw clenched in aggravation. Shawn flopped back onto the couch, grabbed one of the spoons and bowls and thrust it into Carlton's hands.

"What's this?" Carlton asked.

"Saturday morning cartoons are best watched with sugary cereals." Shawn picked up the cereal box and gave it an annoyed glance. "I guess this will work for now. Seriously, Carly what does a man your age need with fiber flakes?"

Carlton snatched the box from Shawn. "What other kind of cereal should I get, Shawn? Sugar smacks?"

"Smacks, Carly. Just Smacks."

"Whatever." Carlton poured cereal into both of their bowls and doused Shawn's with a generous helping of milk.

"No milk for you?" Shawn asked.

"I don't like milk. I only keep it to cook with."

"You eat _dry _fiber flakes? My god, Carly, could you get more geriatric?"

"And what, dare I ask, do you normally eat for breakfast, Spencer." That damn name again.

"I prefer a hot breakfast: pancakes, eggs and any variety of breakfest meats. But if I'm forced to eat an instant breakfast I usually turn to Pop-Tarts. Chocolate fudge, but strawberry will do in a pinch."

Carlton just rolled his eyes before leaning back into the couch and stirring his flakes. Shawn gave him a self-satisfied look before snuggling up next to him with his own breakfast.

The two ate in silence for awhile, watching as the annoyingly cheerful children and crusty sea captain introduced another episode of spongy hijinks.

"What do you think?" Carlton asked quietly, his mouth full of chewed up flakes.

"What?" Shawn asked, half his attention still on the TV.

"You said what Gus thinks. What do you think they're hinting at?" The question was asked with the air of one who really didn't want to know, or even care actually, but had already invested too much time in the conversation not to follow it through.

"The sponge is totally doing his neighbor." Shawn asked, a lecherous smile on his face.

"Neighbor?"

"The blue octopus."

"He has six limbs, Shawn."

"He's an octopus, Carly."

"Six limbs, Shawn. I think that makes him a squid."

"Oc. To. Pus."

Carlton just gave him another eye roll. They fell silent again, their mouths full of flakes and their eyes focused on the TV.

"The neighbor doesn't seem to like him much." Carlton said smugly.

Shawn slurped up his milk and sat the empty bowl down on the coffee table. As he smiled at Carlton, he stuck his tongue out and sensually licked away his milk mustache. "That's what makes it fun, Carly."

"How so?" Carlton asked. His eyes followed the pink tip of Shawn's tongue as it flitted over the corner of Shawn's mouth.

"Well," Shawn began, placing his hand on Carlton's thigh, "the octopus—"

"Squid," Carlton interrupted.

"—may hate him, but he _needs_ him. You see, the octopus's—"

"Squid's."

"—life would be incredibly dull if it wasn't for our spongy friend. And while the octopus—"

"Squid."

"—may hate said sponge, sponge never hated him. All he does is bounce around trying to make life better for him. And while most things in the octopus's—"

"Squid's"

"—life hilariously fail, he can never get rid of the sponge, not matter how hard he tries. Sponge just keeps showing back up smiling and trying to make him happy. And when the octopus—"

"Shawn...."

"—ever does let him help him, things usually go better from him. Right before they hilariously fail." Shawn realized that as his little explanation had gotten going, he'd pushed himself quite nicely into the other man's space. Close enough to rest his chin on Carlton's bare shoulder.

"So," Carlton began in a quiet voice, "no matter how hard the squid—"

"Octopus."

"—tries to push the sponge away, he'll stick around? No matter how boring the squid—"

"Octopus."

"—acts, the sponge will stay friends with him? And no matter how much everything else in the squid's—"

"Octopus'."

"—life fails—"

"Hilariously fails."

"—in the end, he'll still have the sponge?"

Carlton's voice had gotten quieter with each question. The dark-haired man was rolling the rim of his half-full bowl of cereal back and forth in his hands nervously. He hadn't backed away from Shawn's touch, but he hadn't leaned in for more, either. If it had been anyone else, Shawn would have described his actions as shy.

Shawn leaned in closer, stopping right before their noses touched. "Yes," he answered, surprised by his own conviction.

Carlton closed the small gap between them and pressed his lips to Shawn's. The kiss was sloppy. It was motivated mostly by eager happiness than lust or passion. Their noses weren't lined up quite right, which meant their mouths weren't lined up quite right. Carlton's ragged breath blew more saliva into Shawn's mouth than he usually cared for. Still, when it ended and Carlton pulled away with half of his fiber flakes spilling onto Shawn's lap, Shawn couldn't help but think it was the best kiss he'd gotten in a long time.

"Yuck," Carlton said as he pulled back, his face scrunching up in an exaggerated show of disgust. "You taste like milk."

Shawn laughed. "And yet you'd still spend all morning making out with me."

Carlton just raised a dark brow before leaning in for another kiss. This one was softer, slower and no where near as sloppy.

"Thank you," Carlton said softly after pulling back.

Shawn picked a flake off his lap and popped into Carlton's mouth. "Really, Carly. They're just cartoons."

Carlton smiled. "Now I know why you like them so much."

"Told you Gus was wrong."

"Very." Carlton noticed the mess all over Shawn's lap and begin to brush the flakes out of Shawn's lap and into his bowl.

"Whoa, Carly. If you keep this up we won't get to see the end of the episode."

Carlton just snorted and pulled Shawn back into his embrace. "Well, we'll have to wait. This has actually managed to capture my interest."

As the two men sat, Shawn couldn't help but smile. Making Carlton happy had been just as rewarding as mocking him. Perhaps it was time to switch up his technique. It seemed as if he'd have enough time to try out all sorts of things.

"Shawn?" Carlton asked.

"Hmm?" Shawn mumbled, half-aware of anything but his own feeling of contentment.

"What's with the squirrel?"

Shawn just patted the arm wrapped around him and smiled. "Don't worry, Carly. She's just there to look cute."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry! Sorry! I'm so sorry! I have no excuse for abandoning this story the one-shots the way I did. I guess all I can say is that work and my back-to-school efforts have left me with little writing time. Anyways, I hope ya'll enjoyed! This shot isn't exactly in the shape I want it to be in, but I've been working on it for at least a month. If it's not workable now, I'm guessing it never will be. If feels a bit all over the place, but I hope at the very least, it's an enjoyable piece of fluff. I also Hope the obvious _Spongebob Squarepants _reference doesn't seem too out of place, but I just had to put it in. There's so much you could say about Shawn and Spongebob: the eccentricities, their apparent inability to take anything seriously, the pineapples. =) As for the whole squid/octopus thing, apparently there is some confusion on the Internets as to what Squidward is.

Thanks to all those who reviewed, especially those who keep coming back! You all are the best. =)


	11. XI: Say It

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot XI: Say It**

"Say it, Spencer."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not true."

"Liar."

"You sure about that?"

"I know the truth. You're a horrible liar, Spencer."

"I'm good enough to fool you. Trust me."

"I'm head detective and a seasoned veteran of the Santa Barbara police force. You think I can't tell when a person is lying?"

"I know you can't tell when _I'm_ lying."

"Don't be so sure. I think I know you well enough. And even if I didn't, I have proof. Things you've said, things Guster has said, your ridiculous antics around the station. None of it is consistent. All of it points to you lying your ass off."

"Sorry, Lassie. Once again, you're wrong."

"Say it."

…

"Say it.

…

"Say it!"

"Repeating that over and over doesn't make me more inclined to listen."

"You can't admit it can you?"

"Oh, don't look so hurt, Lassie-kins."

"Why can't you say it? You scared? Can't handle the consequences?"

"As if."

"Then say it."

"No."

…

"Look, dude, why does it matter? You know the truth, I know the truth. That's all that matters."

"I want to hear you say it. I need to…You need to…You have to say it."

"You're stammering, Lassie. Not so sure anymore, are you?"

"I'm sure. Say it."

"You're sexy when you're determined, you know that?"

"Stop deflecting. Say it."

"Why? Why would I screw myself over like that?"

"Nothing will happen to you."

"Now who's lying?"

"Say it."

"It'll ruin everything."

"No, it won't."

"It'll change everything."

"No, it won't. Say it."

…

"Say it."

…

"Say it."

"I…love you, Carlton."

…

…

"See, Spencer? I knew it. I always knew it."

"Liar."

"I can always tell when you're lying, Spencer. You lie horribly. You're a horrible liar."

"See? I told you it would change everything. You're much more annoying now."

…

"Quit smirking, Lassie. The spirits are unimpressed with your smugness."

"The spirits love it. You love it. You love me."

"So I've heard."

**AN:** What's this? I'm actually updating? Sorry about that. I posted this one on my LJ a while ago and forgot to put it up here. (Same with the next shot). I've been ignoring these guys for much too long. That's what happens when the real world gets in the way. =/ I'm still working on that long fic; I promise.

I hope the dialogue-only format doesn't leave anyone too confused, but I wanted to ease my way back to fic writing. I admit, the ending is sort of predictable, but it was still fun to write. I hope you enjoy! Love it? Hate it? Please share your comments!


	12. XII: Discomfort

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot XI: Discomfort**

_Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him, _Carlton Lassiter repeated to himself in a low whisper.

He kept his eyes forward, trying with all his might to focus on the computer screen in front of him. That was proving difficult since the moment Shawn Spencer had entered the police station's bull pen, he'd been staring the detective down.

_Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him._

Shawn's staring didn't have the same effect on Carlton as it used to. Before, whenever those green eyes settled on him for too long, he got jittery with anxiety as to just what the psychic had found so damn fascinating about him. Now, whenever Shawn looked at him for too long, he felt as if he was slowly burning from the outside in. His skin would flush, his muscles would tingle and his heart would practically melt and ooze into his guts under the heat of that stare.

The slow burn had begun the second Carlton made eye contact with Shawn. It only got stronger as the other man made his way over to his desk, his eyes never straying from the detective, and began going through every item that covered his workspace.

_Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore—_

"What are you doing?" Carlton asked through gritted teeth.

"Oh, don't mind me, Lassie" Shawn answered, smiliing up at the detective, as he flipped through a pile of folders on Carlton's desk. "I'm just trying to figure out what to get you for our anniversary."

Carlton stiffened. No one in the department knew of his relationship with Shawn (or rather, Carlton hadn't told any one about his relationship with Shawn. Guster had been receiving play-by-play updates from Shawn since the beginning and O'Hara...well, while _no one_ had told her, she had recently developed an annoying habit of smiling much too widely at him whenever he and Shawn were in the same room together).

It wasn't that Carlton was ashamed of his relationship with Shawn. No, of course not. He told himself that he just hadn't reached the level of confidence that he assumed was needed to be in a public relationship with the other man. Shawn had been pretty handsy when he thought Carlton hated him; the detective shuddered when he thought of the stunts the psychic would try to pull if not for Carlton's need for privacy reigning him in.

"Our anniversary?" he said nervously.

"Oh, Lassie, don't tell me you forgot. Come next Thursday, you will have spent the last six months hopelessly in love with me." Shawn picked up a stack of letters and began methodically holding each up to his forehead, then carelessly tossing them away.

Carlton snatched the envelopes from Shawn's hands. "I didn't forget," he replied softly. "I just...I didn't think we were going to make a big deal out of it."

"A 'big deal'? Lass, before you, I've never made it to six _weeks." _Shawn made for Carlton's desk chair when the other man stood to pick up the letters that had been thrown to the floor. "We must mark this momentous occasion with food, gifts and great sex."

Carlton blushed furiously. "Keep your voice down, Spencer. Remember where we are."

Shawn looked up at Carlton, contempt written all over his face. "That's right. I'm your dirty little secret." Shawn held Carlton's stare a few moments longer before giving a tired sigh. He pulled open Carlton's top drawer and began rifling through piles of pens, pencils and paperclips. "Well, I'm still planning on getting you something, so shut up so I can snoop."

"You're planning on getting _me_ something for our anniversary?" Carlton asked.

"Of course! That's what I do for all my girl—er...significant others" Shawn managed to look embarrassed at his slip before smiling brightly at him.

Carlton's pride bristled and he stiffened where he stood. "What are you implying?" he asked, his voice rough with anger.

Shawn looked up in surprise at Carlton's tone. "Nothing at all, Lassie. It's just, I don't want to show up with just some dumb roses, so..." Shawn gestured to the mess he'd created and shoved the desk drawers closed. He gave another sad sigh. "Your work area is providing little inspiration." Shawn gave the detective a quiet _tsk, tsk _before perking up at the sight of Carlton's lunch sitting forgotten on the corner of the desk.

"I mean, why would _you_ get _me_ roses?" Carlton slapped Shawn's hand away from his BLT. Shawn settled for snagging his coffee instead.

"Come on, Lassie." Shawn said, as he swirled the lukewarm coffee around in its cup. "You were married. You know the drill. Valentine's, birthdays and anniversaries. Roses, chocolates and jewelry."

Carlton was too agitated to point out that not knowing the drill (or at least not following through on the drill for every occasion) had been one of the reasons his marriage had failed. No, he was far too distracted by something else.

"Are you implying," Carlton began darkly, "that I am the woman in this relationship?"

Shawn knit his brows in confusion. "What?"

"You just called me your 'girlfriend.'" Carlton fumed, while trying to keep his voice to a near whisper. "And now you're talking about buying me roses, chocolates and jewelry. The same things I used to buy for my _wife_."

Shawn shook his head in amusement. "Tad sensitive, aren't we?" he asked before rolling his eyes and taking a swig of coffee. He gagged and quickly set the coffee back down next to the sandwich.

"No, 'we' aren't." Carlton leaned over his desk, placing both palms on the worn wooden surface and staring intently at Shawn.

"Really?" Shawn cocked an eyebrow. "Don't worry, Lass. You reek of alpha male. A box of chocolates or a stripper-gram isn't going to change that."

Carlton moved closer to Shawn. "Now you listen to me, Spencer, if you think I'm going to let you make some kind of fool out of me just because we—"

"Heel, Lassie," Shawn interrupted, giving Carlton a slight shove. "What's got your boxers in a bunch? I never said I was going to do anything in public. And I definitely never said you were a woman. Besides," Shawn's face broke into a malicious grin, "You can't be the woman. I'm the one who takes it up the—"

"SHAWN!"

An awkward silence fell over the bull pen following Carlton's outburst, and the detective could practically feel every set of eyes that were now focused on him and the psychic. Shawn, to his credit, didn't seem bothered by it. He made another grab for the BLT, this time snatching it up before the detective could stop him. He took a large bite out of the sandwich before rising from Carlton's desk chair, giving a sloppy salute and strolling out of the pen.

"Later, Lassie," he tossed over his shoulder.

Following Shawn's exit, a low murmur swept through the pen. Carlton, despite being red with embarrassment and damn near shaking with residual anger, was already regretting the outburst. Wasn't he the one who was always warning Shawn about causing a scene? As he stood there, with nosy officers milling about, he thought that perhaps Shawn was right. He was being oversensitive. He'd been with Shawn long enough to know that his barbs were not to be taken seriously. And just what was so wrong with Shawn wanting to do something for him on their anniversary?

Carlton turned suddenly from his desk and stalked out the pen to look for Shawn. He spotted him in the main entryway chatting with the desk sergeant.

"Spencer," he called out, "Can I talk with you for a moment?"

Shawn glanced over at him and turned back to the sergeant. He said something that made the woman giggle before winking at her and coming to stand in front of him.

Carlton pulled him into to a corner, out of the flow of foot traffic. "Look," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. You were right. I overreacted."

Shawn just nodded.

"If you want to celebrate our anniversary by getting me roses or something, that'd be fine."

"Really, Lass? You yell at me and still think you're going to get a gift?" Shawn rolled his eyes in an exaggerated show of frustration. "I was trying to think of something a little less cliché than roses, but now I'm not sure if you even deserve those."

Carlton smiled gently. "I understand." He ducked his head as a group of uniformed officers walked past them.

"I wouldn't embarrass you like that, Carlton," Shawn said softly.

"I know."

They stood in pleasant silence for a moment, before Carlton spoke up. "I got an idea. How about I take you out for our anniversary? I'll get you the flowers and the chocolates and the jewelry to make for ruining your plans."

Shawn frowned. "What the hell? So now _I'm_ the woman?"

"No! Um..I...I just meant that—"

"Kidding, Lass."

Carlton chuckled warmly. He wanted to kiss Shawn, but couldn't. Not in the station. He settled for smiling at the man. And maybe, he secretly hoped that somehow the psychic would sense how he really felt.

_I love him. I love him . I love him._

"Well, I guess I better go." Shawn began with reluctant turn towards the station doors. "Gus gets cranky if I leave him out in the car for too long."

"Well, we can't have that."

_I love him. I love him . I love him._

"See you later, Lassie."

"Later, Shawn."

_I love him. I love him . I love him._

_

* * *

_

"Well?" Gus asked when Shawn entered the car.

"Worked like a charm," Shawn replied. "Lassie's hooking me up with a sweet anniversary."

Gus looked over at his friend in confusion. "What are you talking about? You were supposed to go pick up our pay check."

"Ran into Lassie."

"Please tell me you didn't spend the last fifteen minutes flirting with your boyfriend?"

"Not just flirting. He screamed my name."

"Shawn, remember our promise about your relationship with Lassiter and how I never want to hear a thing about it?"

"Aw, come on, dude. Play nice and I can probably talk Lassie into getting something for you, too."

Gus made a face. "I don't want an anniversary gift from your boyfriend. _Especially_ if that boyfriend is Carlton Lassiter."

"Really? You both have so much in common: You both wear gaudy suits, you both can't dance and you're both both painfully repressed." The last part was said quietly. So quietly, that Gus was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to hear it.

"Shawn?" Gus asked, concern evident in his voice.

"He can barely hold a conversation with me in public. He's so fucking afraid." Shawn replied softly. "I'm a threat to him. To his career. To his manhood."

Gus knew he needed to say something, _anything_ to get back that bubbly, excited look Shawn had on his face before he went into the police station.

"Well," Gus said after a few moments of silence, "since you offered...see if you can get him to buy us matching Psych cuff links for when we crash formal events."

Shawn laughed. The laugh is forced and rather weak, but was a laugh nonetheless. "Yellow or white gold?"

"Please. Do you have to ask?"

"White gold, it is."

"You know that's right."

* * *

**A/N: **So, yeah.

I'm totally supposed to be working on expanding the iPod drabbles, but this story has been hanging out on my computer since February (it was originally a Valentine's Day fic). I've played with it, rewritten it, mulled over it for so long that I'm now just sick of it and am not really happy with how it turned out. I hope it makes sense. It feels slightly rushed and kind of all over the place. Maybe one day I'll give it another go. Meh. If at least one person gets some enjoyment out of it, then I suppose it would have been worth it. =)


	13. XIII: Finders Keepers

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot XIII: Finders Keepers**

"Carly Barley! We're home!" Shawn Spencer sing-songed as he opened the front door to the house he shared with Carlton Lassiter.

"'We're'?" Carlton asked out loud as he made his way to the front door. He hadn't been expecting any company, and as far as Carlton knew, Shawn hadn't planned on bringing anyone home. Shawn stood in the entryway, struggling to close the door. His arms were bogged down with shopping bags, fast-food bags and two small duffel bags. Carlton craned his neck to look behind the other man, but saw no one.

"Shawn, who's 'we—" Carlton's question died in his throat as Shawn stepped fully into the living room.

"Shawn," he began dangerously, "what's that?" Carlton pointed at the two small bodies attached to each of Shawn's legs.

"What does it look like, Carly?" Shawn answered, setting the duffel bags on the floor.

Carlton knew what it looked like. It—er, they, looked like two tiny, blond-haired boys stuck to Shawn's legs. Carlton didn't hang around with many children, so he couldn't place their exact age. He guessed they were around 4 or 5. They looked to be about the same age; twins possibly, dressed in matching khakis and red Spiderman T-shirts. They were old enough to balance on Shawn's shoes and clasp their skinny arms around his knees, but hadn't said a word since Carlton had spotted them. They both just stared silently at him, distrust evident in their large blue eyes.

"It _looks_ like kids, but what the hell are they doing here?"

Shawn snapped his head up. "Language, Carly!"

"What are they doing here?"

"They're ours."

"'Ours?" Carlton repeated warily.

"Yep. You're a father now, Carly." Shawn scrunched his face in thought. "Although, I guess that means I'm the mother, but—"

"Shawn."

"— I don't think I'd make a good mother, Carly. Hey, maybe we can get Gus—"

"Shawn."

"—to take the title of 'mother' and I can be the cool uncle. Of course that might confuse the kids—"

"Shawn."

"—if they ever catch us making out. Fine, I guess I'll be the mother, but nobody is calling me 'Mommy,' and I'll be damned if—"

"Shawn!"

"Yes, Carly." As he rambled, Shawn had waddled into the dining room, lifted each child off his leg and sat them at the dining room table. The shopping bags had been thrown underneath the table and Shawn had placed Happy Meal bags in front of each child.

"What do you mean 'ours.'"

Shawn sighed as he began sticking paper napkin bibs into the children's shirt collars. "I mean, I found them at the park, and now they're ours."

"Wha...you...how? No!" Carlton stammered. He started again. "You...you don't just find children, Shawn. These kids belong to somebody."

"Uh-uh," Shawn sang, helping one of the children pick the onions of his cheeseburger. "I checked. I asked around the whole park. No one claimed them. And you know the law."

"What law?"

"Finders keepers."

"When it comes to children, Shawn, I believe it's called 'kidnapping'."

"You say tomato, I say...well, nothing, because I hate tomatoes."

"I'm serious, Shawn."

"So am I, Carly," Shawn replied with a tone of finality. "You're a poppa now, so if you don't mind, help Calvin with his food."

"'Calvin?' They were able to tell you their names?"

Shawn fidgeted. "No, they haven't spoken since I found them. I named him. The chubby one with the shaggy hair is Calvin." Shawn pointed across the dining room table at the boy who was busy trying to stuff french fries in his ears.

"And that one?" Carlton asked, nodding towards the boy Shawn had been helping to feed.

"Well, duh, Carly. Isn't it obvious? That one's Calvin and this one's Hobbes."

* * *

The next day when Carlton went to work, he scoured the wires for any records that may have mentioned the boys. And he was utterly perplexed when he came up with nothing. No missing children. No runaways. The boys' physical descriptions didn't even match any of the foster children who were living within a 20 mile radius of the park where Shawn said he'd found them.

"This whole thing makes me uncomfortable, Shawn," he'd told the other man when he returned home that evening. As he sat on the couch, he watched as the boys scampered across the carpeted floor. They were building LEGO towns that kept getting tragically destroyed by LEGO Godzilla.

"I already told you: Finders keepers." Shawn was lounging on the floor with the boys, one hand busy helping Hobbes design a new LEGO tower, the other hand busy preventing Calvin from sticking LEGOS in his ears.

"These kids belong to somebody. You can't just keep them."

"Calvin, quit it," Shawn scolded the chubby child. "Good work, Hobby," he said while grinning at the other boy. Hobbes smiled back at him shyly,

"Shawn, you're ignoring me."

"I heard you," he snapped. "They belong to us, so, yes, I can keep them."

"They probably miss their parents."

Shawn glared up at him from his spot on the floor. "We're their parents."

Carlton sighed. "I never pictured you wanting kids, Shawn. Where's this sudden want to parent coming from?"

Shawn turned back to play with the boys. "I like kids. The kids like me. It's a great match. We're a family now, Carly. Don't you think it's amazing?"

"Amazing" was not the word that came to mind whenever Carlton saw the two children. "Creepy" was more like it. While the children loved Shawn, they'd taken to treating him more like an unwelcome interloper. Neither one of them had spoken to him yet. And after walking in on their bath during which the two of them had been singing "Umbrella" at the top of their lungs along with Shawn, he knew for a fact they could talk. Hobbes (or "Sane One" as Carlton referred to him) seemed to avoid being alone with Carlton, making a point of attaching himself to Shawn's leg whenever Carlton entered the room. Calvin (or "Ear Boy") on the other hand, had begun following Carlton around the house, always with a thumb in his mouth and a distrustful glare in his eyes.

"It's something," Carlton mumbled.

Shawn either didn't hear him or decided to ignore him. "I never realized how quiet this place used to be. I like to hear them laugh and talk and run down the halls. Isn't it more fun with them around?"

"Couldn't you have just gotten a dog?"

Six sets of eyes (one of which was hazel, two of which were blue and all of which were narrowed in anger) turned to face the detective.

"We're a family, Carly," his tone ice cold. "And they're staying."

Carlton was forced to sleep on the couch that night, his lanky body squeezed onto the trendy leather sofa. He awoke the next morning to find Calvin sitting on his chest, trying to shove crayons in his ear.

* * *

"No, Shawn."

"What?"

"You're not bringing home another one."

"'Another one'? Excuse me, Carly, but she does have a name. It's August."

"'August'? What kind of name is that for a little girl?"

Shawn shrugged, the girl shifting in his arms. "She reminds me of Gus."

Carlton looked at the girl clinging possessively to Shawn's neck. Her coffee-colored skin contrasted prettily with the fluffy pink dress she was wearing. This child was younger than Calvin and Hobbes, just a toddler if Carlton wasn't mistaken. Her hair was parted and styled into two puffy pigtails placed on both sides of her head. But it was her eyes where Carlton really noticed the resemblance. Her brown eyes glared at him with a familiar mixture of dislike and fear. It was like looking into the pissed off eyes of Burton Guster himself (that is, if Burton Guster were transformed into a toddling little girl).

"Where'd you find this one, Shawn?" Carlton asked tiredly.

"It's weird, dude. I was at that same park where I found Calvin and Hobbes. We were playing on the swings when," Shawn pressed his forehead to the little girl's, rubbing their noses together, "this little lady came walking over. I checked around and no one knew who she was, so..." Shawn left the sentence unfinished, his attention focused on the little girl in him arms.

"This child—all of the kids you've brought into this house—belong to someone. We need to find their parents."

Shawn stopped cooing at August. "We've had this conversation already, Carly. We're their parents."

"Yes, I can see the family resemblance," Carlton said dryly.

Shawn gasped at him. "Hush, Carly! You want her to think she's not welcome!" He turned back to the little girl, kissing the top of her head. "Don't worry, August. Papa Carly didn't mean it. And you totally look like your Cool Uncle Gus."

"Shawn, we still have to—"

"Calvin! Hobbes!" Shawn shouted, brushing past Carlton. "Come meet your new little sister!"

Two days. Three children. Carlton had always considered himself a virile man, but his nads had nothing on Shawn's ridiculous child finding skills. He turned to leave. He had to get out of the house before the knocking in his head turned into a full-blown pounding migraine.

"Oh, Carly," Shawn's voice called out, stopping him. "If you're not busy, could you run by Wal-Mart and pick up some pull-ups. August isn't potty trained."

"Shawn—"

"Love you!" Shawn said as he flounced out of the room. August's suspiciously smug giggles were the last thing Carlton heard before he stormed out of the house.

* * *

Carlton grimaced as the heavy chest drawer fell from the wardrobe, sending the swaddled baby doll sliding across the floor.

"Dammit!" Shawn cursed under his breath. "Why won't this work?"

"Shawn, children can't sleep in furniture. You're going to have to figure something else out." Carlton leaned against their bedroom wall, balancing a fidgeting August in his arms. It was late and Calvin and Hobbes were asleep. August, however, had finally gotten comfortable around Carlton and was studying him with alert eyes and more curious fingers. She'd poked his nose, pulled on his lips, patted his cheeks and was now running her small hands back and forth through his hair.

Shawn stood and placed his hands on his hips. His skin was flushed from exertion and frustration. "Well, we've got to figure something out. It's almost 11 o'clock. She's been up all day."

"You should of thought of that before you brought a baby home," Carlton replied.

Shawn glared at him. Carlton attempted to glare back but the effect was ruined by the small child dressed in pink clinging to his head.

"Did you expect me to leave our child alone in a park?" Shawn asked.

Carlton rolled his eyes. He'd grown tired of having that argument. Instead he wrestled August from his head and moved to examine the wardrobe. "Why can't she sleep in the guest room with the other two?"

Shawn shook his head. "We've got to be able to hear her if she cries without worrying about waking Calvin and Hobbes up."

"Okay. Why can't she sleep on a mat or something. I've got a sleeping bag in the basement."

Shawn frowned. "On the floor?"

"Look, Shawn, the only other option is to let her sleep with us."

Shawn looked up at him, his mouth forming a surprised "O" before softening into a warm smile.

"Why, Carly," he says in a gentle voice, "that sounds like a great idea."

Before Carlton could come up with a reason for why, no, it was a horrible idea, he and Shawn were lying on the bed with August's twitchy body smashed between them. It took Shawn 45 minutes and six lullabies to settle the hyper child down and soothe her to sleep.

And as Carlton lay on the bed, August's curly hair tickling his nose and Shawn's arm tossed haphazardly across the both of them, he decided that there was no way in hell Shawn was ever going to go to the park by himself again.

* * *

"Now, before you say anything," Shawn began, as he entered the living room, "yes, I was at the park and yes, we're keeping him." Shawn stood before Carlton, his hand resting on the thin shoulders of tall, thin boy with jet black hair and richly tanned skinned. He was the oldest child Shawn had brought home yet, looking at least 10 years old.

Hobbes rose quickly from the floor where he had been playing with Play-Doh to rush to Shawn's side. He threw his arms around the man's knees and hid his face in his jeans.

"Hi, Hobby!" Shawn said, ruffling the child's hair. "Did you take good care of Calvin and Gussie?"

The boy nodded, face still hidden.

"This has to stop, Shawn," Carlton said from the floor. "We can barely take care of the other three brats you've brought into this house." Carlton pried Calvin's dough cover fingers from his head and pulled a ball of blue Play-Doh from his ears. When the boy attempted to shove the ball into August's ear, he swatted him away. August sat, ignorant to the Play-Doh attack, bouncing on Carlton's lap and sucking on his tie.

Shawn shushed him, before turning to the children. "Papa Carlton didn't mean it, guys. You know how cranky he gets." Calvin, Hobbes and the new boy nodded in agreement ("What do you know?" Carlton had snapped at him, before being shushed again by Shawn). August just continued to happily suck on Carlton's tie.

"I've got someone I want you to meet," Shawn announced. "Guys, this is Doro. Doro, your new siblings." Hobbes lifted his head from Shawn's jeans just long enough to glance at the new boy before hiding his face again. Calvin waved, then made another attempt on August's ear. August sat and sucked.

"_Hola_," Doro said quietly.

"He talks!" Carlton said, surprised. "This is the first child you've brought home that talks."

Shawn beamed. "And this is the first child you've seemed happy to meet."

"Of course. It's a child who can finally tell me what's going on." Carlton stood, setting August on the floor. She whimpered as Carlton's tie escaped her grasp. Carlton approached Doro and kneeled in front of him. "Doro, my name is Detective Lassiter. Tell me, where are your parents?"

The boy stared at him silently.

"Doro? Where are your parents?" Carlton asked the child again, speaking slower and softer.

The boy just blinked.

"Oh, dude," Shawn started, as if remembering something. "Doro doesn't speak English."

"What?" Carlton asked, staring up a Shawn.

"Nope. No English."

"Doro?"

_"Hola_," the child responded.

Shawn turned Doro so that the boy was looking at him. "_¿Doro, tienes hambre?_

Doro nodded eagerly, smiling at Shawn.

"Calvin, Hobbes, take Doro and August into the kitchen. I'll be right in to make you all lunch."

Shawn and Carlton watched as Calvin stood, boldly grabbed Doro's hand and dragged him into the kitchen. Hobbes reluctantly let go of Shawn's pants leg, lifted August up by her middle and quickly followed his brother out the room.

"Shawn, your kidnapping has gone international. We can't keep that kid," Carlton said in a firm voice.

"Were you not paying attention to what I said when I entered the room?" Shawn sighed. He wandered over to the couch and pressed down on the cushions. "Do you think Doro will be comfortable sleeping on the couch? It'll only be until we get another bed. I don't think he'll be as comfortable sharing with us as August was."

"That kid isn't like the others. He's not going to just go along with this."

Shawn ignored him. "They all need new clothes," he mumbled to himself. "Gus. Gus has money. I bet I can talk him into springing for a new wardrobe."

"He'll remember his parents, his home, his name..." Carlton brightened. "His name! We know his real name. We can look him up in the system."

Shawn finally turned back to face Carlton. "Oh, Doro isn't his real name. I gave it to him."

"What?"

"Yeah. When I asked, he said his name was Fernando...something something. I forgot already." Shawn started for the kitchen, but Carlton grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back to him.

"You named him Doro? Why?"

Shawn gave him an exasperated look. "Doro: It's the masculine version of Dora."

Carlton just stared at Shawn. Twin boys named Calvin and Hobbes. A little girl named August. A young boy named Doro.

"You suck at names, Shawn."

Shawn laughed and kissed Carlton on the cheek. "You think so?" he asked as he pulled away. "Well, it just so happens that Doro has a great nickname. Know how to say 'Little Doro' in Spanish?"

Carlton shook his head.

"_Dorito._"

* * *

Carlton was amazed at the amount of damage four children could do to his house in a matter of days. His living room, which was once an orderly extension of his office, looked as if a day care had arrived and threw up all over it. LEGOS, toy cars and crayons were scattered about the floor. Brightly colored children's clothes, decorated with images of Mickey Mouse, Winnie-the-Pooh and the X-men were draped across his couch. Packages of pull-ups sat in the corner, stacked in a makeshift fort. Carlton's bulletin board, which once was covered with wanted posters and mugshots, was now displaying the children's art work. August's consisted of nothing but multicolored scribbles, Calvin and Hobbes featured mutant looking Spider-Men and Doro had taken to drawing portraits of each member of the family (of all the portraits Doro did, Carlton's was the only one who was scowling. "The kid's an artistic genius," Shawn had laughed when he pointed it out. "He captured the true you.").

His living room wasn't the only room in the house damaged by the kid-o-cane. His kitchen cabinets were full of sugary cereals and tiny boxes of toddler finger food. More art work was stuck on the door of his fridge, covering up his calendars and to-do lists. His guest room (now referred to as the kids' room), was a total loss. Blankets, books, toys and clothes covered every surface. The designer sheets on the queen bed that Calvin and Hobbes shared was wrinkled and stained. The once polished furniture was now covered by smudgy fingerprints.

But, as bad as the house was, it was nothing compared to the changes Carlton's life had undergone. Shawn made him get rid of all the guns that he'd had hidden around the house out of fear of one of the children stumbling upon one of them. He'd started getting up early on his days off to help Shawn dress and feed the children. He sang lullabies to August and played tag with the boys. He watched _Teen Titans_ reruns on TV and listened to _Spongebob Squarepants_ CDs in his car. He dried tears and cleaned runny noses. He barely recognized himself.

"These kids are taking over our life," Carlton had whined one evening as the kids buzzed around them. August sat on his shoulders playing with his hair, and Carlton winced as he watched his leather couch cushions get trampled under Calvin and Hobbes dirty tennis shoes. "How much longer are they going to be here?"

"_¡Ay, Doro_!" Shawn exclaimed, as he fussed with the older boy's hair in front of the living room mirror. "_¿Qué hacemos con este pelo?_"

"Shawn, you're ignoring me again."

Shawn turned from the mirror, his eyes narrowing. "How long did you mother keep you, Carly?"

"That's not the same thing."

"I think it is."

"You're not being practical."

"Aren't I?"

"Someone is going to come looking for these children sooner or later, Shawn. Their real families. Their real mothers and real fathers. I just don't want you to be hurt when that happens."

Shawn's shoulders drooped and he turned back to the mirror. "Their real family is right here. I just wish they all realized it."

* * *

"I love the man. He's a great guy and he means well. But I think he may have lost his mind," Carlton told the social worker as she made her way around the house. Shawn had taken the kids to his father's for a barbecue lunch, and, expecting the time alone, Carlton had invited the social worker he'd been in contact with to stop by and visit their home.

Now, the woman was poking around the house, taking time to stop and jot down quick notes in her notebook. She was thorough. Carlton liked that. She'd asked for photos of the children (easy to acquire since Shawn had taken to photographing them on a daily basis) and DNA samples (also easy to acquire, since the little rugrats had left their hair, saliva, tears and vomit all over his house).

At the same time, he wished she'd hurry the hell up. He'd felt like a heel ever since he'd first called Child Protective Services. Shawn was going to freak out when he told him the children were going to be taken from them. The children't wouldn't handle it well, either. August and Hobbes would cry, Calvin would stare at him like the back stabber he was and Doro would just ask, "_¿Por qué, Papá Carlton?_" Crazy as Shawn was, the children loved him. Loved each other. They never mentioned any other family members. They truly acted like they were Shawn and Carlton's children.

Which just mean Shawn's lunacy had become even more dangerous than he'd originally thought.

Carlton was struck with a new fear. "He won't get in trouble will, he?" he asked the social worker. "Like I said, he means well; he's just nuts. I mean, how else do you explain a man who thinks he can just find children and take them home?" Carlton chuckled weakly.

The social worker closed her notebook and gave him a humorless stare. "Mr. Lassiter, after reviewing the children's background and visiting your home, I have reached a decision."

Carlton straightened, preparing himself for what she had to say.

"It is in my professional opinion that all four of the children remain here with you and Mr. Spencer."

Carlton was speechless.

"Mr. Lassiter?"

"Uh..."

"Mr. Lassiter?"

"What did you say?"

"The children should stay with you, Mr. Lassiter. There is no record of any missing children that fit their descriptions. If you chose not to keep them, they will end up in foster care. However, from what I've observed, I believe they will do much better in this household with you and Mr. Spencer."

"You're saying there's nobody looking for these children?"

"Precisely."

"Why do we get to keep them?"

"Since there is no one else claiming the children and they seem to be thriving with you, there is no reason to take the children out of this home. You and Mr. Spencer took the children in first, so they're yours."

"Oh my god," Carlton said to himself quietly. "Shawn was right."

"Excuse me?"

"It's the law of Finders Keepers."

* * *

"Shawn."

"Now hear me out, Carly. I swear I didn't want to go near that park, but Calvin, Hobbes and Dorito ran in there and I had to go get them back—"

"Shawn."

"—and I know you don't believe me, but I swear I couldn't find his parents—"

"Shawn."

"—so I couldn't just leave our baby out in that park—"

"Shawn."

"—all alone, and dude, he's Asian, so we'd have a complete set—"

"Shawn!"

Shawn stopped his rambling and looked up from where he was kneeling next to a smiling boy with almond-shaped eyes and chubby cheeks. "What?"

Carlton sighed. "You're not naming him."

"What?" Shawn stood, keeping the boy's hand clasped in his.

"He can stay, but you're not naming him."

"What? Why?"

"Why do you think? You named the last one 'Dorito.'" Carlton remarked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dude, I had a totally great name picked out."

"What? Jackie?"

"No."

"Bruce."

"No."

"Mushu?"

"Dude, don't be so ignorant." Shawn said, as he placed his hands over the boy's ears. The child squirmed playfully as he attempted to escape Shawn's grasp.

Carlton rolled his eyes. "Then what?"

"Ricky."

"Ricky? Why 'Ricky'?"

Shawn shrugged. "I like that name."

Carlton smiled, shaking his head. "Okay. Ricky it is." He approached the boy and took his hand. "What do you think of that, Ricky?"

The boy just laughed and smiled up at him, black eyes bright and happy.

Shawn studied Carlton, his eyes focusing in the sight of Carlton's hand holding Ricky's. "What? No fight? No 'he doesn't belong to us, Shawn'?" he finally asked as he took the boy's free hand.

"Will that convince you to take him back?" Carlton asked, staring at Shawn until the other man met his eyes.

"Nope."

"Well, no use arguing."

"Glad you finally see it my way." Shawn looked down at the giggling boy. "Come on, Ricky. You've got to meet the rest of the family. Papa Carlton here is kinda of a lame, but Cool Uncle Gus and I totally make up for it."

"Shawn," Carlton began with a warning.

"But it's okay, we still love him." Shawn looked up and smiled at the other man. "He is our family after all."

* * *

**A/N: **So my muse went out and smoked some crack last night, resulting in this little plot bunny. It was supposed to be short and sweet, but as I've stated before, I have trouble ending things. I totally developed a whole other plot where Lassie gets sick and the kids take care of him and he comes to appreciate "the family," but...geez, I never would have finished it at that rate. It's a wonder I ever finish anything with my brian going off on random tangents every time I write. I don't know if it works, but it was fun to write. I just keep imagining Shawn coming home with more and more children and Carlton's expected freak out. You know those two would make awesome parents. =) Love it? Hate it?

I totally forgot last time but a HUGE THANK YOU to all those who've left reviews! I really appreciate all your kind words. Thank you!


	14. XIV: Knowledge

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot IV: What Shawn Knows**

Shawn isn't exactly sure what it is about Carlton Lassiter that makes him so appealing.

He knows he loves the look of frustration the man gets whenever he starts getting a "vision." The detective's forehead wrinkles, his lips pull into a thin line and his eyes express an emotion that can only be described as a cross between speechless embarrassment and blinding homicidal rage. Shawn knows the other man is dangerous; he's a cop, trained in the art of multiple weaponry and hand-to-hand combat tactics. And while Shawn should be terrified of this, instead he finds himself doing anything he can—dancing, touching, whispering, groping—to fluster the detective.

He knows he loves the smug look of satisfaction the man gets whenever he's proven right about, well, _anything._ The detective's blue eyes dazzle with a light that seems to come from no where and his mouth, usually turned down in a grumpy scowl, twists into a cocky smile that Shawn finds quite pleasant to look at. Shawn knows that, more often than not, the detective's self-righteousness is aimed at his direction. That it's usually Shawn's mistakes that give the detective the greatest amount of glee. But instead of being insulted by this, Shawn finds himself letting little things slip—an overlooked clue, a forgotten witness—just to see the look of happiness cross the detective's face.

He knows he loves the look of vulnerability that flashes through the man's eyes whenever someone (usually the Chief) says something particularly biting about the detective's overall awkwardness. His body stiffens and his face tightens in what Shawn can only imagine is a valiant effort to fight off a wounded frown. Shawn knows that the words effect the man a lot more than his stoic body language will let on. His enjoyment isn't malicious. It's not the look of hurt, but rather the opportunity to comfort—cheeky remarks, Chinese food, inappropriate compliments—that keeps drawing Shawn in.

He knows he loves the look of concentration the man wears whenever he's taking down a suspect. His aura practically throbs with confidence and his eyes become dark and piercing. One might even say predatory. Shawn knows that the hot, heavy feeling that grips his chest and radiates throughout his entire body whenever he sees those eyes means that he is undeniably and irrevocably gay. However, the realization doesn't upset Shawn. Rather, he finds that the perks of being gay for Carlton Lassiter—a new love of tight, button down shirts, daydreams of rough interrogation sex, a sudden appreciation for gun-related porn—far outweigh the drawbacks.

"Why?" the detective whispers when Shawn finally lets him up for air after cornering him in an empty interrogation room and pressing their lips together. Instead of answering right away, Shawn continues to press small kisses along his lips, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

Carlton, oblivious to Shawn's subtle hints to _just shut the fuck up and kiss him!_, continues to babble, his voice husky. "I thought...I thought you liked O'Hara. She's pretty and gorgeous and—" he shudders as Shawn switches from kissing his neck to sucking on it. "She's...more your type. Why me? Why me? Why me?" The "why me's" become more desperate sounding as Shawn works his way further down the other man's chest.

"Shawn," the detective practically whimpers as he pulls the other man's face up to his, "why? Why me?"

Shawn looks at the man he's spent the last four years working beside, standing behind and studying from afar. His face is cautious and practically screaming _don't hurt me! _The look is pathetic and heart-breaking and endearing all at the same time, and Shawn feels his heart clench. Shawn knows all the things he loves about the other man—his strengths, his weakness, his hurts, his comforts. He knows he loves all these things, even if there are a thousand reasons for why he shouldn't. He knows he wants more, even if he can't begin to place why.

So, when the detective looks at him, his eyes vulnerable and unsure, and wants to know why, all Shawn can do is mumble "shut up," before pressing against the other man and claiming his lips.

* * *

**A/N:** Because my attempt at crack! (a.k.a. "Finders Keepers") creeped out so many, I want to apologize with shameless fluff. Please love me again?

I have a well-deserved week of vacation starting today, which means I get to finally catch up on my fic writing. It'll be just like in school when I crammed all my exam studying and paper writing in during Thanksgiving break. Only instead of the foreign policy of Mexico, it's slash fanfic. =D

Oh, and allow me to announce "Pazz_and_Jop's Amazing 24-Hour Fic!" Got a fic you want written? Well, I'll attempt it. Check out my livejournal, pazz -and- jop. livejournal .com /4786 .html (delete the spaces) for more info. Don't have a livejournal, but want to request a fic? Private message me!

Anyways, thank you for all the love so far! You all are awesome. Reviews equals love!


	15. XV: Soothe

**Shot XV: Soothe **(Sequel to Shot XII: Discomfort)

* * *

Shawn Spencer wasn't surprised that three days before the celebration of his sixth month anniversary with Carlton Lassiter, the detective had convinced him of how much more intimate (read: less public) it would be to celebrate with dinner at home.

"Just you and me," Carlton's voiced hummed in his ear. "Doesn't that sound more fun than sitting in some stuffy restaurant with a bunch of strangers?"

Shawn had agreed that it did sound more fun, but only because he tended to be much more agreeable when Carlton had his hands in his pants.

Now, sitting in the harsh light of the police station's fluorescents, pants completely devoid of anyone's hands, Shawn was regretting the sway lust held over his decision making abilities.

Dinner at home meant dinner alone. No nosy waiter. No staring restaurant patrons. No judgments. No embarrassment. It was that last item that hurt the worst.

Shawn had always wondered just how upset he was allowed to be about Carlton's inhibitions. The thing was, Shawn knew the other man was repressed from the very beginning of this whole mess. Hell, that had been what drew him in. It had been a game, of sorts. One of the most challenging relationships he'd ever entered.

It had been fun to see just how close Carlton would let him stand next to him before he began fidgeting like child with poor bladder control. It was even more fun to see how red the other man got whenever Shawn said the words "suck," "tight" or "deep." Shawn could even admit that it had been fun to see how fast the man could slap his hands away when they starting drifting too low. And he could tolerate the gruff reproaches, the physical distance whenever Carlton recovered from his embarrassment, and the annoying excuses Carlton gave anyone whenever they were asked how they knew each other and why they were dining together—just the two of them—on a Saturday night. (Shawn was usually demoted to an old friend who'd come in from out of town. An old friend too cheap to spring for a hotel and whom Carlton was more than willing to show around town and offer a place to sleep.)

But somewhere along the line, things began to get complicated. Things like the way Carlton murmured his name right before he fell asleep. Things like the smile he wore whenever Shawn called him some ridiculous name like "Lassie-kins" or "Lass-afras" or "Lasper the Lanky Ghost." Things like the new habit Carlton had picked up of always touching Shawn—his hair, his face, his hands—whenever they were alone.

He started noticing things about himself, too. Like how well his head fit in the crook of Carlton's shoulder as they slept. And how warm Carlton's skin felt right out of the shower. And the way his own pulse sped up whenever he so much as thought of the other man.

And the way it hurt when Carlton pushed him away.

"Fuck," Shawn swore to himself. Those things were _not _part of the challenge. And now, here Shawn was. Not quite in love, but not quite able to push away a man who treated him like some sort of shameful secret.

Shawn was used to embarrassing people; however, most of the time it was done for his own enjoyment. Crashing Gus' dates by pretending to be his Sexaholics Anonymous sponsor. Whispering to his father's poker buddies that Henry's foul mood was brought on by a painful anal abscess. Being an embarrassment was nothing new to Shawn; he'd just never thought he'd be considered embarrassing simply for loving someone.

* * *

"Dude, I think I'm gonna have to break up with Lassie." Shawn sat at his desk, chair leaned back, with his eyes focused on the ceiling.

"That's great. Are we out of baked Cheetos?" Gus darted around the cluttered office, digging through drawers and shuffling items on shelves.

Shawn frowned and brought his gaze down to stare at his best friend. "Thanks for the support."

Gus ceased his puttering to turn and look at Shawn. "What?" he asked, confused. "You're a grown man, Shawn. You don't need to run your relationship decisions by me. Trust me; I don't want to know."

Shawn scoffed because most of the time that was _exactly_ what Gus wanted, but Shawn supposed that must only be the case when he was in relationships with women. He sighed.

"I don't want your blessing," he said. "I want you to talk me into it."

Gus dug an open bag of his long searched for cheesy baked snack out from a file cabinet and returned to his desk chair. "He's cheap. He's too tall. He sleeps with a gun. He _showers_ with a gun. What other reasons do you need?"

Shawn smirked and leaned back to resume staring at the ceiling. "Those aren't reasons to end a relationship."

"You once ended things with a girl because you said she smelled like Elmer's glue."

"That was different." Shawn snapped his head toward Gus. "God only knows what she was doing with that glue."

"She was an elementary school art teacher, Shawn."

"Then should have smelled like Mr. Sketch markers or children or something," Shawn finished lamely. Gus just glared at him. "It was gross. It wouldn't have worked out."

"Hmph," Gus mumbled, mouth full of Cheetos. "So, what's wrong with Lassie?" Gus quickly raised a hand as he hurried to swallow. "That I want to hear," he clarified once his mouth was empty.

"Nothing's wrong. In fact, things are great. Between the two of us."

"Then what's the problem?"

Shawn remained quiet.

"Shawn?"

"Just between the two of us," Shawn mumbled disgustedly to himself. Shawn lifted his face back up to the ceiling. "Dude, have you ever been ashamed by me?"

"Ashamed?"

"Have I ever caused you shame?" Shawn asked again. "I mean, I know I've embarrassed you plenty of times. I do quite enjoy it, actually; one of my life's joys outside of the free food you provide."

Gus rolled his eyes.

"But, have you ever...been ashamed of me. By me. Not because I told your senior prom date you needed to wear adult diapers because your unnaturally short intestines prevented proper absorption of fluids."

"You do realize that's one of the many reasons I no longer introduce you to anybody I'm interested in," Gus replied curtly.

"Just answer the question," Shawn said.

Gus studied Shawn's profile, taking in his clenched hands and absolute refusal to make eye contact. One of the reasons Gus was Shawn's best friend was because the man knew him well enough to see through his flakey exterior and read his true intentions. It'd taken almost 18 years to fully gain that knowledge, but it was key in maintaining any sort of friendship with the man.

"You're a decent guy, Shawn," Gus said after a few moments of silence. "If Lassiter is ashamed of that, than he's the one with the problem. Not you."

"Sometimes…it's hard to tell the difference."

Gus sighed at Shawn's melodramatics and bounced a Cheeto off his head. "You have a lot of problems, Shawn. But loving Lassiter isn't one of them. Not unless he makes it."

Shawn grinned sadly at the ceiling.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the sound of Gus chewing marking the passing seconds. "For what it's worth," Gus began, "Lassiter looks a lot less constipated when you're around. That has to mean something."

"Thanks, buddy."

* * *

Carlton, it turned out, knew how to throw a pretty decent anniversary dinner. Shawn hadn't been expecting to be greeted by a three-piece suit wearing detective and a four-course meal. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from six candles placed on the elegantly decorated table. Shawn inhaled, the tantalizing smell of lamb and seasoned potatoes luring him into the apartment. He gave a small tug at Carlton's suit sleeve.

"I thought we'd decided to ditch dressing up," Shawn asked him. He'd come over in only dark denim jeans and a button-down shirt.

Carlton smiled self-consciously and closed the front door. He leaned in and gave Shawn a chaste kiss. "I was going for a certain mood."

Shawn gave a small laugh. "Suits and kisses...nothing the patrons at La Lune couldn't have handled."

Carlton's smiled wavered, but didn't fall. "Nothing wrong with wanting you all to myself," he said softly before pulling Shawn to the dining room table. "I hope you're hungry. Lamb and potatoes for the main course and a German chocolate cake for dessert."

"You cooked?" Shawn asked with some surprise.

"I called out," Carlton replied sheepishly. "I didn't really know what to make for you so, … I just figured…," he sighed. "I'm not so good at these things, remember."

Shawn listened as the detective rambled nervously, feeling his own already agitated nerves rankle in response.

"Lassie, I can't really—"

Carlton cut him off before he could finish. "Come. Sit. There's wine." Carlton guided Shawn to the seat. The table was beautifully set with gold-gilded china that Shawn had never seen before and was certain had been bought that day. In front of him, placed on top of his dinner plate, were two cream-colored boxes tied with a chocolate-colored ribbon. The smaller of the boxes, about the size of his palm, sat on top of a larger box, which was roughly the size of the dinner plate.

"Gifts?" Shawn asked surprised. He couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face. "You bought me stuff?"

"Yours is in the larger box; the small box is for Guster."

Shawn looked up, confused. "You bought my friend a gift for _our_ anniversary?"

"You did mention matching Psych cuff links. I figured better safe than sorry."

Shawn gave a snort of amusement. "Good move. I'm sure Gus'll love 'em." He placed the small box aside and looked down at the box on his dinner plate. He felt a twinge of guilt as the expensive-looking box sat in front of him.

"I didn't get you anything," he said slowly.

Carlton shrugged. "I don't mind. That wasn't part of the deal, if I recall."

Shawn shook his head at the box and began to rise from his chair. "Look, Carlton. I can't stay for too long. I just—"

"Open it," Carlton urged quietly, pushing him back into the chair. "Before you say anything. Please."

Shawn sighed and lifted the lid off the box. Inside, nestled in a bed of tissue paper, was a silver picture frame. The frame was simple: brushed metal with a beveled edge. Inside the frame was a picture of Shawn.

"A picture. A picture of myself. Why, Lassie I don't know what to say," Shawn said with irritation in his voice.

"The picture isn't for you."

"Even better," Shawn answered dryly.

"It's for me."

Shawn snorted, studying the frame. "You're horrible at this, you know."

Carlton fidgeted uncomfortably. "The frame and the photo of you is for me to put on my desk."

Shawn looked up. "What?"

"My gift to you. I want a picture of you on my desk. My desk at work."

Shawn stiffened, the weight of the silver frame weighing heavily in his hands. The frame was for Carlton's desk. His _work _desk. His _public_ work desk that, unlike many other desks at the station, was devoid of many personal knick-knacks. No favorite coffee-stained mug. No news clippings from one of his many high-profile busts. No photographs. Many of the other officers had photographs on their desk. Pictures of smiling wives and bald-headed babies. Pictures of loved ones.

Shawn took a deep breath in. "Carlton, that's...that's a lot. Especially from you."

"No, it's not," Carlton knelt next to Shawn's chair. He snaked an arm around Shawn's waist, pulling the younger man closer toward him.

"You're a very confident man, Shawn. You don't care what other people think of you. I want to be more like that, but..." Carlton gave a shrug and looked down at the picture frame. "It's not the best anniversary gift, I know."

Shawn studied the photo. It was very innocent: a photo of Shawn looking at the camera with the beach behind him and a smug grin playing across his lips. Nothing even remotely sexy. He couldn't even remember when it had been taken. The frame was pretty innocent, too. Not one of those sentimental things that most couples owned. No romantic nothings engraved on the bottom of the frame. Not even a heart. A simple, masculine photograph for a simple man.

"I think," Shawn began, "it's perfect." Shawn turned to look the other man in the eye. "It's very you." His last phrase was said with no malice or mocking.

Carlton gave him a sheepish grin. "It's a start."

Shawn gave a small smile back before leaning in and pressing a kiss to Carlton's lips. Carlton pulled Shawn closer, clutching his arms in relief and gratitude.

When they parted, Shawn sighed. "So… not to ruin the moment, but what motivated you to do this?"

"I've been dating you for six months, Shawn. I've known you for almost six years. I can tell when something's bothering you. After last week's … incident … it wasn't hard to figure out."

Shawn nodded, then turned to look at the spread Carlton had laid out.

"I'm ready to eat now. Food looks good, but we can't eat all of it. I promised Gus I'd bring him a plate."

Carlton cocked his eyebrow. "You're bringing him a plate of _our _anniversary dinner?"

"Part of the deal."

Carlton rolled his eyes before kissing Shawn again. "Of course." He rose to his feet, straightening his suit jacket. "Thank you, Shawn," he said quietly, squeezing the other man's shoulder.

Shawn looked up at him in confusion. "For?"

"For giving me another chance."

Shawn looked away, a flush of embarrassment spreading across his face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Lassie."

Carlton smiled. "If you say so, Shawn."

* * *

**A/N: **Lame ending is lame. =/ Allow me to apologize for the ridiculous amount of time it took to update the anniversary story. I had most of it written, I just had to force myself to sit down and finish it. I hope it's not too subtle. Shawn was gonna break up with Lassie; I just didn't want to hit you all over the head with that. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy and I hope it was worth the wait! =D

As always, thanks so much for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.


	16. XVI: Just a Cut

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

"It's just a cut."

"A 'cut'? I'm massively hemorrhaging all over your kitchen counter and you call it a 'cut?' Dude, this isn't a cut; this is … this is mangled. I can attract wild animals with this. I'll be as pale as you. I'll—"

Carlton clucked his tongue, interrupting Shawn's babbling. "I'm surprised, Shawn. After all you've been through, you freak out over a little nick." He grabbed the other man's wrist and led him to the kitchen sink. It was a bad cut—a long gash slicing diagonally across Shawn's palm—but it wouldn't require professional care.

Shawn winced as Carlton ran warm water over the wound. "This is all your fault, you know."

"My fault?" Carlton asked, looking up from where he was gently cleaning Shawn's hand.

"Yes, your fault, Mr. Let's-Flirt-With-Knives. Who told you to sneak up on me and my culinary genius?"

Carlton's face flushed slightly. "It was a small knife, Shawn, and you were just cutting an onion. I thought you had better control over yourself than that."

Shawn smirked. "You know I do."

Carlton's face flushed again. He turned the tap off and grabbed a nearby dish towel. "Yes, I know," he replied softly, patting Shawn's hand dry. "Let me get some bandages from the bathroom. I'll be right back." Carlton moved to leave the room but found himself being held back by Shawn.

"Lassie," he pouted. "You forgot something."

Carlton searched the kitchen counter top in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Shawn grinned smugly before sticking out his lower lip and lifting up his cut palm.

Carlton couldn't help the indulgent smile that spread across his face. "I see," he replied warmly. He grabbed Shawn's hand and raised the palm to his lips. He smiled into Shawn's skin as he pressed quick kisses along the gash. He turned the hand over and kissed each of Shawn's knuckles before smiling back up at the man affectionately.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much."

* * *

**A/N: **Oh, it appears I'm not dead? Yeah, I'm back. And I wrote this awfulness. Ever since I finished "Love is Blind," I haven't been able to write anything. I've complained about my writing before, but I've never had writer's block this bad. Send me your prompts, your requests, your fanfic challenges. Please! I have to get over this. =/


	17. XVII: Following the Rules

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Shot XVII:** Following the Rules

Two bodies lie entangled, surrounded by pillows and cotton sheets. These two (actually, only the one) will be needed soon to protect and serve. To be a hero. Crime won't wait for them, but at the moment, neither one has any motivation to rise.

Carlton wakes first. He's drawn from his slumber by the sound of heavy rain and the feel of an empty stomach. He lifts his head from his pillow and gives a passing thought to the time. The storm, combined with Shawn's highly effective curtains, leaves the room dimly lit, so he has no idea how late it is. He looks down and see's a rumpled head—Shawn's head—resting on his chest. They're both warm despite their nakedness and the previous night's activities has Carlton feeling sore and sated.

And ... maybe just a little nervous.

Carlton isn't good at this. He can fumble his way through sex decently enough, but the pillow talk and the cuddling and the ... _afterwards_ is much harder. Carlton knows people find him to be rather awkward. Sex and nakedness don't help to alleviate the situation.

Shawn inhales loudly and turns to shift in Carlton's arms. His eyes open slowly, long brown lashes hiding the hazel of his eyes from Carlton. Shawn looks up, meeting his gaze, and for a split second, Carlton's stomach clinches in fear. What if Carlton's making too much out of a single night? What if Shawn's disappointed? What if Shawn expects more? (Or, just as frightening, what if he doesn't?) They had been dancing around each other for years before finally coming together in a drunken interlude following a department party. But, what seemed so certain last night, wavers at the sight of Shawn's sleepy grin.

"Good morning, handsome," Shawn whispers. His voice is teasing, but Carlton can't tell if it's gentle-between-lovers-teasing or if it's Shawn-Spencer's-trademarked-I-know-something-you-don't-know-and-therefore-I'm-superior-to-you teasing. Either way, it does little to ease Carlton's anxiety.

"Good morning," he echos back. The steadiness of his voice surprises him.

Shawn smiles at him before running a hand through Carlton's hair affectionately. His nimble fingers slowly massage the other man's scalp, doing a unexpectedly good job at easing the tension from his body.

"Well, that was enjoyable," Shawn sighs, his breath warm against Carlton's skin.

Carlton grunts in agreement. He can't do smooth as well as Shawn can. "What time is it?"

Shawn just smiles at him again, before removing his hand from his hair and turning to look at a clock on the nearby night table. "Seven-eighteen in the morning," he yawns as he leans back into Carlton.

"Is it that late already?" the detective panics. Carlton sits up quickly, nearly throwing Shawn off of him. "I need to be at the station in forty-five minutes."

Shawn eases him back into the pillows and nestles in closer, winding his arms around Carlton's torso. "Skip a day, dude. You've earned it."

"Shawn, move. I need to get dressed and get to work."

"You _need _to work on your social skills," Shawn mumbles. Carlton shivers at the feel of his warm, moist breath against his skin. "There are rules for stuff like this. First rule: No rushing. Someone just gave you great sex. Running out on them is kinda impolite." Shawn stretches like a sleepy alley cat pressing more of himself against Carlton. Carlton knows he's doing it on purpose, but finds himself reacting to it nonetheless.

"Second rule," Shawn continues, "is never mention work, especially if you're sleeping with someone from work. It's not sexy."

"Shawn—"

"And third: No getting dressed before noon. Underwear is okay if you absolutely must, but no pants. It's only seven o'clock, it's too early for pants."

Carlton attempts to slide out from underneath Shawn and loosen the grip the other man has around him. Neither option provides him any escape, so he has no choice but to relax into Shawn's arms. "Someone will call. The Chief. O'Hara."

"And the rules say you ignore them or lie to them; but you're a horrible liar, dude, at least when it comes to your love life."

"Who came up with these rules, Spencer?"

"'Shawn.' It's against the rules to refer to someone who just blew you by their last name."

Carlton flushes at Shawn's bluntness. "Who came up with these rules…Shawn?"

"Common knowledge, Carly. The rules also say you owe me breakfast in bed—something hot, so no cereal or Pop Tarts—so feel free to get started on that."

"Without pants," Carlton verifies.

"See? I knew you'd catch on."

"Well, you certainly seem to know what you're doing."

Shawn lifts his head and gives Carlton a look he can't decipher. Carlton tries to keep his face unreadable, but he knows Shawn knows what he's thinking. Somehow, Shawn always knows what he's thinking.

"I do," Shawn finally answers, before resettling himself against Carlton.

Carlton tries to keep himself from squirming. He's ... uncomfortable, and if there's one thing he hates, it's being uncomfortable. Despite Shawn's cheerful morning demeanor, nothing he's said has gotten rid of the heavy block of lead that's still sitting in the pit of Carlton's stomach.

"I do know what I'm doing," Shawn begins. "I also know that, in these type of situations, people are at their most vulnerable when they just wake up." Shawn lets go of the darker-haired man and rolls away so that he's looking up at the ceiling. He stretches his arms out in front of him and gives a loud yawn.

"I don't know if it's the bed head or the morning breath," he resumes, "but people usually start thinking too much and that just ruins everything. So, I just do as little thinking as possible. No thinking, no hurrying, no pants. It's worked for me so far."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Carlton replies. Shawn turns to out at him, before laughing. His arms take their place back around Carlton's middle.

"That's the spirit," he chuckles as he pulls the detective close to him.

Shawn is warm and heavy against him and Carlton feels his limbs melt around the other man. Maybe Shawn's right. No thinking. Just follow the rules. He _has_ always liked rules. If there are rules for this whole morning-after thing, then there's a chance that he won't completely screw it up.

And he kind of likes the idea of not screwing this up.

"You're still thinking, Carlton," Shawn says, interrupting his thoughts.

"I'm just wondering what the rules say we do we do now?"

Shawn props himself on his elbow and grins at him rather lecherously. One of his hands makes its way up Carlton's side to his head and pulls him in for probing kiss.

Turns out, that rule was exceptionally fun to follow.

(And it should go without saying, that neither one of them ever did get their pants on that morning.)

* * *

**A/N: **Morning-after fluff. Wheee! I wrote this for a prompt given to me by **deathsecretary** (at livejournal), so I hope it's not too full of fail. =/ (Why must my Carlton always be awkward and insecure?)

Oh! And I think I found the root of my writer's block: Post-Season 3 episodes of Psych. The overwhelming Shabby and Shules totally throws me off my Shassie game. Me no likey.


	18. XVIII: Clash

**Disclaimer:** Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

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**Shot XVIII: Clash**

The burning comes as a surprise. Every part of him feels red and raw: his eyes, his nose, his throat. The only thing that doesn't burn are his teeth which chatter relentlessly in the chilly cold.

They say water gives life; well, this water is fighting to take his away. Waves pound and swirl around him, dragging him down into its murky depths, where the currents attempt to suffocate him. It's an unfair fight. When one force lets up, another rushes in to swallow him whole.

This is not pool water: clean, clear and chemically treated. This is nature's water. Water at its most elemental.

It's not clean; it's full of salt and sediment that stings his eyes and leaves a layer of film in his mouth when he finally breaks through the surface and gasps for air.

It's not peaceful. This water swirls around him, disorientating him. He loses his senses for a moment and has no idea which way the water is coming. He cannot tell which way holds air_(life_) and which way holds water(_death_).

He searches, but can't find the person he's seeking. Lanky Lassiter with his lovely, long limbs. Lassiter who's fearless in the face of bad guys with bullets, but is helpless in the throes of nature's fury, thrashed about like a child's abandoned bath toy.

The water bobs over his head, dousing him in the gritty water. He shakes the ocean from his eyes and looks over the horizon. He yells the others name, but is drowned out by the sound of crashing water and his own pounding heartbeat.

The water must take pity on him, because for a split second, he sees a foot. Then a leg. A long leg that Shawn would recognize anywhere—even here in the midst of the tempest.

He struggles against the water to reach the capsized man. Inches feel like miles and his strength fails him half-way to his destination. He has to stop and rest and by the time he paddles his way to where he last saw Lassiter, the other man is gone.

Tears (_more water_) borne of frustration, desperation and determination flood his eyes. The cleansing fluid eases some of the burn in his eyes for a moment and give him a moment of clarity.

_"We'll die here."_ He stills at that, sinking slowly back into the blue gray-depths. _"No no no no no no!"_ his mind repeats over and over. He will not die. He flails against the sheets of water that continue to overtake him. He will _not _die. Not here. Not alone and cold and in surrender of all this damnable water.

He kicks suddenly. Pathetically. And his foot hits something soft and solid. Without thinking, he goes under and pulls the heavy, torpid body up of his friend (_more like his life_) from the cold grasp of the undertow.

The face is pale and riddled with tiny cuts and bruises. He tries desperately to wake the other. He screams his name, splashes him in the face and presses frantic, icy lipped kisses all over the other's face.

He's efforts are useless.

He expends too much energy fighting to save a man whose already gone and feels his body giving up against the ever-present pull of the sea.

His cry is quiet and choked. He's too worn out to struggle; he's too tired for fear. He closes his eyes and releases his breath. He pulls the other close and finds comfort in the feel of the solid body against his. He's not too out of it to notice the beloved beat—which had lulled him to sleep countless nights before—has gone silent.

The water begins its assault anew: pounding, dragging, pulling, smothering. The battering isn't as bad now that he's not fighting it.

His awareness and control over his body slip through his fingers with the ease of wind. Still, his mind fights to keep his grip on consciousness. But as the depths get darker and his head feels lighter, he clasps the hand of the man next to him and then ...

He let's go.

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**A/N: **I wrote this in about an hour while listening to what must be the most inappropriate death-fic writing music ever. In all honesty, I have no idea where this came from. It just sort of popped into my head and demanded to be written. I'm terrified, not so much of drowning, but of finding myself in a situation in which there is no way out or no way to survive. It can be drowning, trapped in a fire, buried alive, falling in mid-air, whatever. The element doesn't matter. I just find the idea of being surrounded by it and being unable to escape it horrific. =(

I feel like I've been ignoring this series. I've been busy with fic prompts (wedding!fic, kink meme) that are multi-chaptered or still on the back burner, so this story gets ignored. I'll try and pay it more attention. One-shots and drabbles are the love of my life. And I love seeing how my writing's progressed from the very first chapter (which, I'd like to point out, was also my very first Psych story ever!).


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